


Blow, East Wind

by Mice



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Angst, Greg ain't putting up with no Mycroft hate, Hurt Greg, Hurt/Comfort, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Mycroft has a martyr complex, Mycroft in Love, Mycroft was never as bad as Sherlock assumed, Mycroft-centric, Sherlock and Mycroft try to reconcile, The Final Problem AU, Worried Mycroft, everyone knows Anthea isn't really her name, some Holmes family history, the Holmes parents are not good people, the ice is only a facade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-29
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-12-08 11:38:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 28,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11645775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mice/pseuds/Mice
Summary: Greg was in an office with a huge window overlooking a rough, grey sea, somewhere far from London. There was a tall, dark-haired woman with him, sitting in a chair and staring at him as though he were some sort of laboratory specimen. Her eyes were the sort of cold you might expect from a reptile. Greg was handcuffed to a chair by his wrists and ankles, his mouth held shut with duct tape.He suppressed a shiver. This, he thought, is not going to end well.An AU where it's not Molly but Greg who was targeted as one of Eurus's victims during the events at Sherrinford.





	Blow, East Wind

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore what might happen if Greg had been the one Eurus chose to threaten instead of Molly, and her obsession had not been solely with Sherlock.
> 
> All hail the mighty Random-Nexus, hyper-deity of beta.

Greg had been on his way home when he was ambushed. It had taken three men to subdue him but, in the end, it was the needle that had sealed his fate. He'd struggled against the sense of vertigo and the swift onset of unconsciousness, but there had been nothing he could do.

He had no idea how long he'd been out when he finally woke. Greg was in an office with a huge window overlooking a rough, grey sea, somewhere far from London. There was a tall, dark-haired woman with him, sitting in a chair and staring at him as though he were some sort of laboratory specimen. Her eyes were the sort of cold you might expect from a reptile. Greg was handcuffed to a chair by his wrists and ankles, his mouth held shut with duct tape.

He suppressed a shiver. This, he thought, is not going to end well.

"You're afraid," the woman said. "That's good. You should be." Her voice was smooth, and just as icy as her eyes. "You need to know that this is Mycroft's fault. He's going to order your death. I'll actually kill you, of course, but it will be his decision, his order." She smiled, but it was a horrifying facsimile, none of it reaching her eyes. 

"He's so predictable, really. He was never as smart as he wanted to believe. Smarter than Sherlock, but that's not hard. If you give Mycroft time, he'll get to the answer eventually, but he refuses to really embrace logic. He thinks he's _moral_. Useless concept." She sighed and leaned back in her chair. "I think Sherlock shows some potential, though. He was always more like me, much more willing to take things apart to see how they work."

Greg had horrifying thoughts of this woman taking people apart with no more compassion than you might have for pulling the gears out of an old clock. She grinned and Greg's blood froze. "You're going to be interesting. Sherlock likes you. Not as well as he likes his doctor, but you were certainly useful for Jim to threaten. We know what lengths he'll go to when he wants to protect his friends, but what will happen when his own brother decides to kill you? Sherlock's reaction will be of some note, but I'm also quite looking forward to Mycroft's. Sherlock might even be willing to kill Mycroft afterward. Mycroft will hate it; he's always trying to make Sherlock more like he is. It's pitiful, really." She chuckled for a moment before her frightening smile vanished and her face became a nearly-inhuman mask of indifferent cruelty. "Mycroft won't like having to make the decision. That will be very entertaining. He needs a little suffering in his life."

She'd had something to do with Moriarty? Greg was already having a rough time fighting a rising sense of panic. Adding the idea of that mad bastard to the mix wasn't helping at all. He'd been deadly and seriously deranged. Too many people had died when he was messing about with Sherlock. If this one had anything to do with that, chances were very high that Greg wasn't going to be the only casualty by the time she was done. The way she was talking, she'd been familiar with Sherlock and Mycroft for a very long time — decades, most likely — and now Greg was worried for both of them, as well as for himself. She sounded like she intended for Mycroft to die, as well.

"You're wondering who I am," she said, sounding bored. "I'm the east wind. I'm Mycroft's nightmare."

There was a tap on the door and a dark-haired, balding man entered. "They've made landfall. We've initiated lockdown procedures."

The woman nodded. "Right on schedule. Mycroft is dependable that way. Is everything in place?"

"Of course, Ms Holmes."

Greg couldn't help the startled sound he made. The woman looked at him. " _Of course_ no one told you. That's Mycroft's fault too. He's a terrible brother. Mummy always hated him." She turned her attention back to the man. "Well, get all your little toy soldiers in a row." She gestured dismissively with one hand. "We can't keep Big Brother waiting." Mycroft's sister gave a casual tilt of her head toward Greg. "Put him in the cell I told you to prepare for him. Make sure the monitor is running. I want him to understand exactly what kind of person Mycroft is."

The man nodded and went to the door, calling two more men in. They were dressed in guard's uniforms and didn't bother releasing Greg to move him; they picked up the chair he was in and carried it out with Greg still in it.

The cell wasn't far from the prison governor's office; it seemed more a holding cell than one designed for maximum security. Not that Greg had any hope of escaping from it, being chained to a chair. The monitor showed the farce of John and Mycroft entering the place with Mycroft in disguise, and Sherlock sneaking in to see his sister — Eurus, apparently — dressed in a guard's uniform. Half the screen showed John and Mycroft with the governor while the other half gave him a view of Eurus efficiently messing with Sherlock's head and sucking him into her games. 

He listened with growing horror to everything going on in the office with Mycroft, John, and the governor. By the time Mycroft and John had figured out they'd been played, Sherlock was already unconscious in a cell. Greg struggled with the chains, desperate to find a way to help his friends, but he only succeeded in cutting and bruising his wrists and ankles.

The guards came for him again, picking up the chair and carrying it back to the governor's office. Greg was horrified to see a woman bound in another chair on the balcony outside the office windows. They looked at one another and Greg knew beyond any doubt that both of them were going to die. He wasn't so sure the woman knew it, but she was obviously terrified.

Once they were both placed where Eurus instructed, she said, "And now, the fun begins. They think this is real. Illusions are so useful." She picked up a phone and entered a number. In the cell that contained his friends, there was the sound of a phone ringing. As it was "answered," Eurus started a recording. Moriarty's voice, strident and mad as it had ever been, introduced the situation, and then a child, hesitant and afraid, announced that she was on a plane that was about to crash.

Eurus watched intently as Sherlock attempted to talk to the non-existent girl, then interrupted the call and baited Greg's friends. He watched as Sherlock attempted to hand a gun to Mycroft, insisting that Mycroft shoot the governor. Greg found the thought appalling. He couldn't say he knew Mycroft intimately, but even he could see how badly Sherlock had misjudged the situation. Mycroft wasn't a man who could shoot anyone in anything other than self-defense. John would have been a better candidate but, ultimately, he couldn't shoot the governor to save the man's wife either. Eurus's goading was pure psychological torture, an attempt to break her brothers and John and, from what Greg could see, she was succeeding. Mycroft was badly shaken, John was furious, and Sherlock was shocked.

Greg flinched when Eurus shot the governor's wife, cold with panic and the knowledge that he didn't have much longer himself. As Eurus made John, Sherlock, and Mycroft leave the cell containing the governor's body, she turned to Greg. "They're all weak," she said. "They think their morals make a difference. It's useless posturing. Death is death. It's meaningless." Eurus gestured toward the dead woman with her chin. "Hers. Yours." She shrugged. "That's why you'll die. Mycroft will make what he considers the most moral decision when I give him his choice. Uncle Rudy tried to teach him to be like me, you know. He always said that caring wasn't an advantage. Mycroft repeats it, but he doesn't really believe it. He has no conviction; his execution is deeply flawed."

Greg looked away from her, trying desperately to shut out everything she was telling him. Some of her words might have been true, but he knew she was trying to manipulate him, trying to make him hate and resent Mycroft before she killed him. It was all on her — whatever she had planned was just going to be more manipulation, and Mycroft would have no more choice than Greg did. No matter what had happened in that cell, no matter who had killed the governor, Eurus would have shot his wife. The entire setup was a lie; she was always going to die, just like Greg would, regardless of any false decision she set before Mycroft. 

The woman was completely deranged, and Greg wondered how long Mycroft and Sherlock had dealt with her as kids before whatever awful thing transpired that had landed her here. It was no wonder the two of them were so messed up emotionally. He couldn't really blame Mycroft for not wanting anyone to know she existed.

"Oh." Eurus said. "I see. You care about him." She snorted, inelegant and dismissive. "You shouldn't. He's not worth it. He certainly doesn't care about you any more than he does about any of the other goldfish in his life." Greg looked up again, nervous and confused. "That's what he thinks of you, you know. Other humans. You're goldfish. No attention span, no intelligence, no ability to reason. You're no different."

The monitor showed Sherlock, John, and Mycroft arriving in the next room. "Oh, playtime," Eurus said. She turned to the monitor and activated the screen in the room with John and the Holmes brothers. "As a motivator to your continued co-operation, I’m now reconnecting you." She pressed a button and activated the recordings again.

Greg watched helplessly as the drama of the Garridebs played out, with Mycroft trying as best he could to resist his sister's games while Sherlock and John followed along in attempt to placate her. Predictably, Eurus murdered all three of the Garridebs, apparently just to spite Sherlock and Mycroft. The three men in the cell looked increasingly shattered by the experience with each new, horrific event.

They were sent to another room, along narrow corridors. Eurus turned to Greg again. "It's your turn now." Greg shivered, unable to stop himself. He'd never really been afraid of dying. He didn't want to, naturally, but he'd always figured that as long as it was quick, it was just something that happened to everyone eventually. This, though, was unbearable. He knew his death was going to be used to torture his friends, to torture Mycroft specifically, though he didn't yet know how. He doubted his death was going to be an easy one.

In the new room, the men were confronted with a screen showing a busy London street. The camera was focussed on the door of a large commercial building. People were passing in and out, and the sidewalk outside was crowded. "One more minute on the phone," Eurus said. She clicked the child's voice on again, and the voice described flying toward a city. Mycroft, obviously miserable, advocated for trying to get the girl to crash the plane into the sea. Sherlock and John wanted to attempt an impossible landing. Greg understood why they wanted to, but he knew that Mycroft's solution was the more reasonable one, the one that would save the most lives. He wished he could tell them that there was no girl, no plane, no dilemma.

"There is a building," Eurus said, when she'd cut off the recording. "People are going to die. It will, as I understand it, be a tragedy." The men looked up toward the screen where Eurus was broadcasting her image. "I've planted a bomb in the building you see in front of you. There are approximately four hundred eighty people in the building. You can save them, though, Mycroft. Nearly five hundred people can go back to their homes tonight."

Mycroft looked at her, then at Sherlock and John. The dread on his face was barely concealed. "And how am I to prevent this bombing?"

"You can save them by ordering one death."

This was it. This was the end. Greg closed his eyes, knowing the decision that Mycroft would make. It was the same one he'd make.

"Whose?" Mycroft asked.

"Oh, it doesn't really matter, does it? Greatest good, and all that." Eurus's voice was casual, dismissive.

Greg looked up as Mycroft stared at his sister's image. "What, exactly, are you asking me to do?"

"Order the death of one man."

"And I ask again, who is that man?" Mycroft looked at Sherlock and John, obviously expecting her to tell him he would have to kill one of them.

"One death or five hundred, Mycroft? Which will it be?"

Mycroft took a shuddering breath. "You know what my decision must be, if this is genuinely a threat to that many lives."

Sherlock and John stood silent, just watching Mycroft. They were obviously wondering what Eurus's game was, as well.

"One death or five hundred?"

Mycroft held his breath for a moment, then swallowed, pale and shaken. "One," he whispered. "I've had to make decisions of this nature before. I've never liked it, but I have an entire nation's security to safeguard."

"Hmm," Eurus said. "Yes. Very good. And you still manage to sleep at night, apparently. You regard yourself as an essentially decent man, if not a good one. I see." She changed the camera angle, and Greg could see when the three of them realized he was in the room with her. "This is the man you've just condemned to die."

Sherlock and John looked shocked but Mycroft, for a moment, looked utterly shattered. The walls came down almost instantly, closing his emotions off entirely, but if Greg had seen it, so had Eurus.

"Are you still making the same decision? One death?"

Mycroft's face was cold as ice, his eyes shuttered.

"Jesus, Mycroft, it's Greg!" John said, gesturing toward the screen.

"It's nearly five hundred people in a busy commercial area." Mycroft's voice shook slightly, giving lie to the coldness of his demeanour. "DCI Lestrade will understand." Greg, knowing he had only moments left, nodded to Mycroft, trying to give him at least a little peace with his decision. "I've had to make similar decisions before. Those, I could live with. This one, though… I'd rather die than live with this decision." Mycroft looked at John. "I can't go on knowing that I'm the one who's given this order. I know you despise me. You certainly have enough reason. Consider this your opportunity to exact your revenge for Greg's death, and for any other offenses I've committed over the years."

Eurus tilted her head. "Oh, this is interesting," she said. "I hadn't predicted this."

Mycroft looked at her, trying desperately to hold himself together. "There is no reason to continue this torment. Do what you must to ensure that those bombs do not go off." He turned to John. "Now, if you'll get on with putting me out of our collective misery, please."

"No, no. I can't have you dying. I have other experiments to carry out. You might be able to save all of them, Mycroft. Just tell me why you're acting like this. Caring isn't an advantage. Uncle Rudy said so. You don't care about anyone. Why this? Why _him_?"

Mycroft shook his head, looking numb, his response flat and defeated. "The answer is irrelevant, Eurus. You don't care."

"Of course not, but _you_ do. I want to know why. I thought your self-preservation instincts were better than this. Tell me. This is vital to my understanding." She raised her pistol and pointed it in Greg's direction without looking at him. He stared down the barrel of the gun that was aimed at his face. "Tell me or I'll shoot him."

"You're going to kill him anyway. Why should I allow you to manipulate me?"

"At the moment, I'm considering not doing so. I need to know what's driving this. What's behind this? Tell me, and I won't kill him."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was harsh with emotion. "Because I have been in love with him for years." He looked at Greg. "There's no chance he would have returned my regard, and he was in more than enough danger already, simply being Sherlock's friend, without adding the complication of my unrequited interest to our interactions." Mycroft's voice shook. "I'm sorry, Greg. I never meant for you to know."

Greg could only stare at Mycroft in shock. Even if he'd been able to speak, he wouldn't have known what to say. He couldn't think.

"Well," Eurus said. "I can't have you dying on me just yet, Mycroft. I need to give you some incentive to stay alive. Don't try to find a way out of the experiments I've planned. If you die, it will be because I've directed it, not because it's what you've chosen as an escape from your responsibility. Remember, big brother — all of this is your fault." Eurus didn't even glance in Greg's direction as she lowered the gun slightly and fired. The bullet slammed into Greg's abdomen and he gave a muffled, agonized shout.

"Greg!" The horror in Mycroft's voice was echoed by Sherlock and John's shocked exclamations.

"If one of you survives long enough, I may let you get him some medical treatment. He might live through it, if you cooperate. If not…" Eurus shrugged, indifferent. "Well, abdominal injuries are supposed to be excruciating, and death can take hours. Maybe even days, if the victim doesn't bleed out first. It would be interesting to see how long he can last like this."

Greg's ears were ringing and he couldn't focus. He gasped for breath as best he could through the pain, tears running down his face.

"By the way, there was no bomb." Eurus smirked.

She sent them along to the next room, and Greg was barely able to follow anything of what was happening through the haze of agony. He was aware that Sherlock had been ordered to kill either Mycroft or John, and that Mycroft was attempting to goad his brother into shooting him by insulting John and telling Sherlock to shoot the doctor. The little bit of Greg's mind that could grasp logic at that point told him that Mycroft was probably doing it because John was a doctor. "You're wasting time, Sherlock," Mycroft finally snapped. "Shoot me and get it over with, then perhaps John will be able to help Greg." Greg wasn't sure he was going to make it to that point.

Sherlock's decision to try to kill himself instead of John or Mycroft had Eurus taking action to stop all three of them, and Greg passed out shortly after the others lost consciousness.

***

Mycroft woke, alone, in a cell with the corpse of the governor. Frantic, he staggered to his feet and paced the cell as he searched for any possible exit. Nothing he attempted worked. He had no idea how long he'd been unconscious, nor what had happened to his brother and John, nor whether Greg was still alive.

Cautiously, Mycroft attempted to move the governor's arm with his foot, not wanting to touch the body. The arm still moved, though it was growing stiff; rigor mortis hadn't yet entirely set in. Mycroft guessed it had been no more than two hours since the governor's death, but he knew Sherlock and John would have had a closer estimate. Forensics wasn't his field. Perhaps an hour since Greg had been shot, then. Mycroft's chest tightened with fear as he thought of Greg, potentially still alive but slowly and agonizingly bleeding to death. Of Greg dying because of him.

He gasped a sharp breath, trying to force himself to calm. Mycroft resumed his pacing, trying to work off the nervous anxiety that refused to abate, his mind supplying him with horrors that he couldn't expunge. Eventually, he sank to the floor and sat, his face buried in his hands.

It was past time when his PA should have begun countermeasures. He'd left strict instructions for a timeline should he fall out of communication for too long. If all went according to plan, she would arrive no more than three hours after Mycroft's initial landfall. With any luck, that would be soon.

Mycroft sat like that, trying to decide what to do about his sister if anyone survived the night. She would obviously have to be contained, but how could he guarantee that she would have no contact with anyone who could be manipulated? He'd thought he was more or less immune to her, that he'd known what to look for and how to counter her, but he'd ultimately been entangled in her web as well. Her plans had been immensely long-range, and Mycroft's culpability went beyond the five minutes of unsupervised time he'd given her with Moriarty. That had been perhaps his most grievous error, but certainly not his only one. At this point, the real surprise was that he'd managed to keep her contained at all. He had no idea what to do; he gazed into an abyss that he had spawned with Uncle Rudy's aid.

There was nothing he could do now that was forgivable. Sherlock would likely never speak to him again, and Mycroft was certain he'd spend the rest of his life trying to make up for what had happened to Greg, assuming the man survived. Lestrade probably wouldn't want to speak to him either, though Mycroft wouldn't blame him if that were the case. 

Mycroft looked up when he saw motion in his peripheral vision. 

"Sir!" Mycroft's PA hurried into the room on the other side of the glass, looking harried, though Mycroft could see the relief in her demeanour. She was dressed in tactical gear, looking exactly as deadly as she actually was, for a change.

He bolted to his feet as she unlocked the door. "Christina, are Sherlock and John all right? Is Lestrade still alive?"

"We haven't located your brother or Doctor Watson. We believe they have been removed to somewhere in Sussex."

Mycroft's eyes widened. "Musgrave. They're at Musgrave." But what she hadn't yet said left him chilled. "What about Lestrade?"

"He's in critical condition. We got him to a medevac unit while we searched the grounds." Christina opened the door and Mycroft hurried to her.

"Why is he not already in transit to the nearest trauma facility?" he demanded.

She put a hand on his arm and steadied him. "Because we didn't know if we would also need the medevac for you. Let's get you to the helicopter so you can be examined en route."

Mycroft nodded, following her as they ran through Sherrinford's deserted corridors. "Someone must get to Musgrave immediately. Eurus must be taken into custody again, but no one should be allowed to speak to her—" 

"I'll see to it, Sir. I'll send a team as soon as I get you on the helicopter. Please, we need to get you examined, and the inspector needs to be removed to a trauma unit immediately. He's lost a great deal of blood, and they're giving him oxygen, a blood transfusion, and fluids. He's also being given a high dose of antibiotics, as he's already started going into sepsis."

"Prognosis?"

"At the moment, uncertain." They were nearly to the roof and the helicopter pad, Mycroft's pulse pounding from his anxiety. She looked uneasy. "Frankly, I'm surprised he's still alive."

Mycroft didn't ask anything further, desperate to get to the helicopter so that they would get the bloody thing in the air to transport Greg to the nearest trauma facility. He wasn't feeling particularly steady himself, but abdominal injuries that resulted in sepsis were extremely serious and needed immediate, intensive treatment. He wanted absolutely nothing to stand in the way of getting Greg to the best possible care as quickly as could be managed. Teleportation would be preferable, but even Mycroft couldn't arrange for that yet.

They barely had the helicopter door closed behind him before it was in the air. Greg's eyes were half open, and he looked pale as death, his clothing soaked with blood. There was a tube in Greg's mouth and he was trailing wires and IV lines everywhere. His shirt and trousers had been opened, exposing his body so the medics had access to his wound. They'd cut open Greg's abdomen to try to stop some of the bleeding and clean the infected wound. One of the medics had his hands inside Greg's body.

Another medic barely had time to get a basin under Mycroft's face before he was vomiting. The sight of Greg like this, opened like an animal's carcass, was too much after Mycroft had seen the governor shoot himself. 

There was a sheen of sweat on Greg's ashen skin. His pulse and other vitals were being monitored closely, and Mycroft could see that his condition was extremely precarious. Two medics were working on him and Mycroft, shaky as he was, did his best to stay out of the way in the small space. A third medic asked Mycroft questions as he was examined, which he attempted to answer accurately. 

Mycroft watched helplessly as the monitors showed Greg's heart going into a serious arrhythmia, the high pitched alarm startling him. One of the medics grabbed the defibrillator as the other prepped Greg, and they shocked him once. Thankfully, it was enough to re-establish a regular rhythm, but Greg was still as a corpse while they worked on him.

Lady Smallwood was waiting when Mycroft arrived, much to his surprise. "I didn't expect you to leave London, Alicia," he said as she intercepted him. The medics weren't going to allow Mycroft into the surgical suite that had already been prepared to receive Greg when the helicopter landed. 

"Your welfare is of direct concern to me, Mycroft," Alicia said. "I've received a report from your team in Sussex, though the situation there is still uncertain."

"They are at Musgrave, then."

Alicia nodded. "We believe so. Some activity has been noted. We should know more within the next ten to fifteen minutes." She looked toward the doors where Greg had been taken. "Your brother's liaison with the Met?"

Mycroft nodded. "Detective Chief Inspector Lestrade. He was… he was kidnapped by Eurus's people and brought to Sherrinford. I wasn't able to speak with him as he was very nearly dead by the time I was in his presence, but I am under the impression he was forced to witness most of what happened. He was shot in the abdomen with a pistol, then left to bleed to death." Mycroft shivered slightly. Alicia raised an eyebrow as Mycroft continued. "The medics in the helicopter said he'd developed sepsis by the time they arrived. The prognosis was uncertain at that point. He had to be defibrillated on the way here."

"You're very concerned about him." She seemed curious, though not judgmental. Mycroft was grateful for that, at least.

"Yes," Mycroft said, not wanting to talk about it. Greg should never have been involved. He should never have been at Sherrinford. Mycroft looked back at the door for a moment before a doctor came for him. 

"Mr. Holmes, we have an exam room for you. Please, come with me." Mycroft followed the young woman and sat on the exam table as requested. Vitals were taken and an exam was done, though Mycroft was deeply impatient for it to be over. He was not happy to be isolated from any potential news about Sherlock, John, and Eurus. He barely listened to the doctor, distracted by his worry. 

"I have Christina on the phone," Alicia said when Mycroft was finally released from the purgatory of the exam room. She held it out to him.

"Report," Mycroft snapped, unable to hide his anxiety.

"Your brother and the doctor are alive," Christina said. "Sherlock is in a fair bit of emotional turmoil. Watson is currently being rescued from a well. From what I understand, your sister was shot as she attempted to assault one of the extraction team. She did not survive." 

Mycroft sat heavily in the nearest chair, his mind numb. "Dead? Eurus was shot?"

"Yes, sir. That was the report I received."

"There hasn't been time for you to arrive at Musgrave yet."

"No, sir, but we did have a team much closer. Sir Edwin is on the ground with them. They were given your instructions, and also your cautions about your sister's ability to exert control over others simply by speaking to them. The team believed they were in danger. I'm nearly there and will take over the scene when I arrive."

Mycroft closed his eyes and covered his face with one hand. He took a deep breath and tried to focus. This was a disaster. It was a relief. He felt incapable of clear thought. 

"Sir?"

"Carry on," Mycroft said, his voice rough and quiet. He ended the call and handed Alicia's phone back to her.

She took the phone and slipped it back into the pocket of her jacket. "You knew this was a potential outcome," Alicia said gently. Mycroft looked up at her. He nodded. She sat down next to him and lay a hand on his shoulder. "I'm going to recommend that you take some time off, Mycroft, and speak to one of the staff psychiatrists." Mycroft nodded again, still silent, still numb. "Would you like some tea?"

"Has there been any word about Greg?"

She shook her head. "Not yet. I suspect it's much too soon, if his injuries were as bad as you suggested when you arrived." She folded her hands in her lap as Mycroft rested his elbows on his knees and held his head in his hands. The numbness was swiftly turning into a migraine. He didn't have them often, but they were in his record, and he had a regular prescription for migraine medications.

"I think tea would be useful, actually," Mycroft murmured. The pain in his head drove him into himself, desperate for some privacy, and for relief. When the tea arrived, a nurse brought him water and something for the migraine as well. 

By the time he'd finished his cup of tea, the meds had started to ease the pain somewhat.

"Do you want to talk about what happened at Sherrinford?" Alicia asked. There was a gentleness to her question that seemed too personal for a debriefing.

Mycroft shook his head. "Not today," he murmured. "I know a report will be required, but I can't focus."

"Right now I'm asking as a friend, not a colleague, Mycroft."

He looked up at her, squinting slightly against the light, which was still bothering him. "You consider me a friend?" he asked, surprised.

"Well, you did come by for drinks that once."

"So I did."

"Tell me what happened with Lestrade." Her voice was soft and careful, as though she knew by some instinct how vital the man was to him. Mycroft couldn't answer. If he said anything at all, it would reveal too much. He already felt like he'd had his heart torn out, with Greg in surgery and possibly dying, his sister dead, and Sherlock in god alone knew what condition. The utter vulnerability of it was nearly as terrifying as the things that had happened earlier that night. Mycroft realized he was shaking when Alicia rested a hand on his knee.

"Why are you asking about him?" Mycroft whispered.

She squeezed his knee gently. "You haven't asked to be taken to your brother, nor to be taken home. Normally one of those would be your first priority. You're waiting to hear if Lestrade survives, so this is obviously exceedingly important to you. I thought you might need a friendly ear."

Mycroft shook his head. "I can't."

"I realize you believe that you don't have friends, Mycroft, but I'm well aware that you've met with him regularly for years concerning your brother. I think he may be the closest thing you've had to a friend for much of that time."

"He's Sherlock's friend."

She nodded. "He's certainly that, as well. Were that solely the case, you'd be on your way to your brother and would rely on reports from the doctors here, rather than waiting. Sometimes I think you've tried too hard to follow in your uncle's footsteps. You're not Rudy, Mycroft. You never were. You're far more brilliant than he was, but trying to cut yourself off as he did has, I think, only been to your detriment."

"Even if he were my friend, Alicia, I doubt he would remain so after what happened out there. I'm quite certain that anyone would regard what occurred as a betrayal. And most people don't spend decades concealing the existence of a criminally insane sister."

Alicia sighed. "Most people aren't in a position like yours in any sense of the word. You are unique, and you are also currently irreplaceable. You are not responsible for your sister's instability, nor for her actions. Not even when they've resulted in deaths and critical injuries."

Mycroft opened his mouth to answer, but a surgeon emerged from the door where Greg had been taken for surgery. "Mr Holmes, Lady Smallwood." The surgeon's demeanour suggested the surgery had been successful.

"Yes?" Mycroft said, rising to his feet. Alicia stood with him.

"We believe we were able to locate and repair all the sources of internal bleeding. We have DCI Lestrade stabilized and he's now in the ICU. The sepsis is still a serious risk factor, but we believe he has a better than fifty-fifty chance now. He's going to be very ill for a while but, if all goes well and we get the infection under control, he should eventually recover fully."

Mycroft was hesitant to regard 'better than fifty-fifty' as hopeful, but he was almost desperately willing to grasp at straws by that point. "When might I be allowed to see him?"

"Not today. We must be absolutely certain that the intestinal injuries are healing before we can close the surgical site. Precautions must be taken not to expose him to any additional potential sources of infection or illness. His immune system has been deeply compromised by the septic infection. We were able to catch it quite early, but adding anything to the burden his system is already carrying could potentially make it much more difficult for him to recover. If he shows some improvement in the next day or two, he'll be able to have a visitor then, but only under the strictest supervision."

They couldn't close the incisions yet? Mycroft closed his eyes, trying to excise the memory of Greg's mangled form. "When will he be able to return to London for care there?"

"I would recommend he stay here for at least two to three weeks so that we can be certain he's progressing well enough to be moved. He won't be conscious for most of that time. He's going to have to remain on life support until he's strong enough to breathe without assistance."

Alicia looked at Mycroft. "Are you planning to remain here until then?"

He took a slow, deep breath. "Unless Sherlock needs me," Mycroft said. "Although at this point I'm uncertain my brother will even speak to me."

The surgeon gestured toward a door across the room. "If you wish, you can proceed to the waiting area at the ICU. It's rather more comfortable than this, and much closer. The staff there will inform you when he's settled. They will be able to answer any further questions you might have. You won't be able to visit Mr Lestrade today."

"Thank you, doctor," Alicia said. She followed Mycroft as he started for the ICU waiting room. "It's perfectly natural to be concerned about your friend, Mycroft."

Mycroft didn't look at her. "Friends are a terrible vulnerability."

"They can be, it's true. Yet they're also an incredibly valuable support," Alicia replied. She gestured toward Mycroft as they walked. "You're here for him, despite not wanting to admit that you care. I don't doubt that he will appreciate your presence when he's conscious again."

He glanced at Alicia was they walked. "I can only hope he might be as forgiving of me as he has been of Sherlock," Mycroft murmured. "We have, between us, done any number of unforgivable things to the man in the time we've known him. I worry that this might the final straw."

"Don't write yourself off before you talk to him." Alicia's phone rang and she answered. "Smallwood — yes, of course." She offered the phone to Mycroft. "Your assistant."

"Christina," Mycroft said. "Report, please."

"Your brother and the doctor are both quite shaken. They're relatively undamaged and are at the local A&E. I'm afraid your parents were informed about the goings-on by the local constabulary, given that the property still belongs to your family. I wasn't able to run interference with them before the calls were made. My apologies, sir."

Mycroft sighed, knowing this was going to be trouble. "I'm sure you had your hands full with Sherlock and Eurus."

"Yes, sir. May I ask after DCI Lestrade? Your brother and the doctor are concerned about him." Mycroft could hear in her voice that she was, as well, and wished he had more reassuring news.

"He's out of surgery and in intensive care at the moment. I was told his odds were 'better than fifty-fifty.' I'm on my way to the unit now but it may be two days before I can be in the same room with him. I…" He hesitated, knowing Alicia was right there, listening to him. "I'm quite worried about him. I would have liked to hear better news after the surgery. The infection is a serious complication, but they do believe he will be able to be removed to a London facility in two weeks or so if his condition improves."

"I'll agree that's worrisome, but I am gratified to hear that he might be back in London eventually. It will be much easier to keep an eye on him there. I can pass the word along to your brother, if you like."

"If you would, yes."

"He also wanted to know if you were all right, sir. What shall I tell him?"

Mycroft was uncertain how to respond to the question. Sherlock never asked how he was. Sherlock had never particularly cared how Mycroft fared, but their encounter with Eurus had changed things between them drastically. "Tell him… Tell him that I am unharmed and that I'm going to be here monitoring Lestrade's condition. When you're done there, please see to it that my phone is brought to me, and tell Sherlock that if he needs me for anything, he can call me."

"I'll tell him, sir. I'm sure he'll be relieved to hear it." She hesitated for a moment. "I've never seen him genuinely concerned for you before. This wasn't at all sarcastic. He was quite worried and told me that he thinks you need someone to look after you. Under ordinary circumstances, I would never say this, but I think I agree with him in this case. With that in mind, sir, if there is anything at all that you need, please let me know. This offer isn't restricted to our usual working relationship. I'll be available to you if you want to talk, or if you just want someone nearby."

Mycroft said nothing for a moment, attempting to formulate an appropriate response. Finally, he settled on, "I shall keep that in mind, thank you," and ended the call as they arrived at the waiting room. He handed Alicia back her phone. She dealt with the staff in the unit as Mycroft retreated into himself, trying to gather his emotional resources again. They were, unfortunately, in extremely short supply at the moment.

If his parents had heard any of the details about what happened at Musgrave, they were going to end up at his doorstep demanding answers, probably sooner rather than later. Mycroft had never been quite able to remain in control around his parents; they always managed to leave him wrong-footed. He dreaded facing them and trying to explain what had happened. At least, being here, he wouldn't have them at his door tonight. He didn't think he could bear speaking of it just yet.

Mycroft returned his attention to the room when Alicia put a hand on his arm. "The nurse is here, Mycroft."

Mycroft looked up at the young Asian man. "How is he?"

"Stable, for the moment. He's being too closely monitored to allow for visitors yet. Tomorrow you can speak with Doctor Deyab. She'll determine when you can be allowed to see him."

"I… I can't see him today. At all." He'd been told this already, but hope had a disturbing tendency to make men desperate.

The nurse shook his head. "Not yet. I'm sorry. In this case, stable doesn't mean recovering, it just means he's not currently deteriorating. We want to make sure he continues to not deteriorate."

"I see," Mycroft murmured, barely holding himself together. 

***

Alicia eventually persuaded Mycroft to take a room near the hospital for the next few nights, and to try to sleep. Christina arrived three hours later with his phone, some clean clothing, and Sherlock in tow. Mycroft had lost track of time, his body shaking with exhaustion, though his mind was spinning with too much anxiety to actually rest.

"You look terrible," Sherlock said, dropping his coat on Mycroft's bed. He paced the room restlessly as he spoke. "They wouldn't let me in to see him when we stopped at the hospital."

"They won't let anyone in to see him yet," Mycroft told him, taking his phone from Christina. "How is John?" Christina left silently and Mycroft could only appreciate her understanding and her tact yet again.

"With Rosie and Mrs Hudson. He's angry and, naturally, he blames you."

Mycroft sighed and sat on the bed, waving Sherlock toward a chair. "Do you?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head and sat. "No," he answered quietly. "Eurus was… I remember everything now, Mycroft. I remember her. I remember the things she did." He took a slow breath. "I remember how you tried to protect me." Sherlock looked away. "And how seldom it worked." He shook his head again, slowly. "I'm afraid I owe you a lifetime's worth of apologies."

"So much of this was, in fact, my fault, Sherlock. If I hadn't given her access to Moriarty—"

"She would have found another way to exact her revenge. She might well have had the governor bring him in himself. Don't be an idiot, Mycroft. You may not be entirely blameless, but Eurus was so far beyond either of us that I'm finding it difficult to imagine her not finding some way to end up here." Sherlock looked back up at Mycroft. "Everything's changed. Everything."

Mycroft thought of Greg's still, feverish form and the way the medic had been digging around inside him in the helicopter, and he nodded. "Yes."

"We're going to need to talk about this."

"Yes." Mycroft rubbed at his eyes, exhausted and aching, physically and emotionally. "But preferably not right now. For the moment, knowing that you're not seriously injured, that we managed to survive this mess, is sufficient. I'm currently completely incapable of coping with anything more than I already am. I'm sorry."

"You really do love him," Sherlock murmured, sounding vaguely surprised. "It wasn't an act on your part to attempt to distract her."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, Sherlock. It wasn't. I know you think me incapable of affection. I've certainly attempted to conceal everything to reduce the number of potential targets in my life. But the idea of losing him — worse, of being the cause of his death — was unbearable." He paused for a moment, trying to collect himself. "It's still unbearable," he whispered. "The odds of his survival are still far too low for my comfort."

"He's stubborn, Mycroft. He's not going to give up. The odds may not be as good as you'd like, but he will fight and I believe he will come through." Mycroft didn't respond. He'd never counted himself an optimist, but he wanted desperately to believe Greg would recover. Sherlock rose and paced across the room to sit next to Mycroft on the bed, his face solemn. "You can be there for him. John said Greg was going to need someone to look after him, to help him once he's well enough to go home again. You're… actually good at that sort of thing," Sherlock said. "Much as I've resented you, I've always depended on you, and you've always been there when I needed you."

"He may not want to see me after what happened."

Sherlock groaned and shook his head. "Where has all your arrogance gone, brother mine? Of course he'll want to see you." He reached into a pocket in his coat and pulled out a packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Mycroft. "Full tar," he said, shrugging.

Mycroft looked at the pack, then at Sherlock, and back at the pack again. He hesitated, but took one. Sherlock lit it for him, silent. There was a hint of concern in his eyes. Mycroft grimaced as he puffed on the thing. The flavor was terrible and the smoke burned his lungs, but he needed something to dull the overwhelming emotions, and the idea of drowning himself in a bottle of expensive alcohol was as impractical as it was unappealing. Emotions. He wished he could avoid them. They always ended up causing him pain.

"I'm quite serious, Mycroft. I do know the man quite well by now."

"You don't even remember his first name, Sherlock, because it isn't relevant to your work." Mycroft couldn't help feeling irritated by his brother's assertions.

Sherlock lit a cigarette himself. "It's Greg. And no, for the most part it wasn't relevant, but that doesn't mean I don't know what kind of man he is. You were right, you know, when you told Eurus that he would understand. He will. He'd make the same choice, because he's like you that way — responsible. He'd rather die than let nearly five hundred innocent people do so if his death could prevent it. He's no martyr; that's your particular flaw. But he understands that sometimes sacrifices are necessary, and he's always known that at some point it might come to a choice between his life and someone else's. So no, Mycroft, I don't think it's going to be an insurmountable issue for him."

"But he knows now." Mycroft could feel his chest tighten, that dull constriction that made his heart ache. He hated it, hated the anxiety and the abject certainty that there would be no reciprocation of his affection. His love. 

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know what to tell you about that." He held his cigarette to his lips and drew in a long breath, letting it out slowly. "You're just going to have to talk to him once he's conscious again," he said, smoke curling gently from his mouth and his nostrils. "I do know he's not straight."

"Don't even attempt to encourage any hope in me, Sherlock. I'm aware of that. It doesn't mean anything."

"And you're not lonely." Sherlock's words were like a blade. He might have been repeating Mycroft's own assertion, but the tone was sharp and cutting and exposed the lie for what it was.

"I'm too tired to fight with you." He was. Mycroft had nothing left in him but smoke and worry. 

Sherlock's voice gentled. "I'm not trying to fight with you, Mycroft. I'm trying to get you to stop blaming yourself for what happened out there." He rested a hand on Mycroft's knee. Mycroft stared at him, confused. "I'm also trying to get you to give yourself a chance. But you're right; you aren't in any condition to be having a serious discussion about anything at the moment. You need to sleep. How long has it been?"

Mycroft thought for a few seconds. "The night before your little visit with John and your circus entourage."

"Going on three days, then. You'll probably start hallucinating soon if you don't get some rest." 

"I don't know if I can sleep. There's too much going on in my head." It wasn't just Greg's condition that haunted Mycroft. His entire experience at Sherrinford was raw and still bleeding. If he closed his eyes, he knew he would keep seeing it, over and over. Nothing felt safe.

"It will be worse if you don't. You certainly won't be of any use to Greg if you're gibbering because you haven't slept." Sherlock shifted on the bed, taking another draw from his cigarette. He squeezed Mycroft's knee and stood. "I'll be back later, when you've had some time. It'll be dawn soon. They'll probably let you back in later if you don't look like something out of a horror film."

Mycroft grimaced and puffed at his own cigarette. "I'm not a vampire, Sherlock."

"I was thinking zombies, actually. Shambling, brainless, possibly rotting and losing parts as you go."

"Good night, Sherlock." Mycroft rose and handed Sherlock his coat, moving to the door and opening it. "I would ask you to give my regards to John, but I'm certain he'd rather hire an assassin to see to me."

Sherlock sighed and shrugged into his coat. "I'll see what I can do about John. That's going to take time, though, and we do have to see to rebuilding the flat."

"If you need anything—"

"Don't worry, I'll be sure to drain your account."

"I was thinking more of your trust fund than my accounts," Mycroft said, rolling his eyes.

Sherlock nodded. "As you say." He made his exit, his coat fluttering dramatically behind him. Mycroft closed the door and contemplated actually using the bed for its intended purpose.

***

Sleep had been elusive, but finally arrived. Mycroft had felt like every cell in his body was vibrating from the exhaustion as he drifted off, but he spent a few hours actually sleeping. It hadn't been enough. He still felt dull and exhausted, eyes gritty behind their lids. A shower, tea strong enough to dissolve a spoon, and two slices of toast brought at least some vague semblance of humanity to him. 

He spoke briefly with Christina on the phone to assure himself that the situations at work were under control, and with Lady Smallwood to assure her that he was functional, though "functional" was the most he could offer on that front. A driver brought him to the hospital and Mycroft made his way back up to the intensive care ward.

Mycroft met with Doctor Deyab on the ward, a middle-aged Egyptian woman who had obviously spent some years in Ireland prior to moving to England. "He's doing better this morning," she told him. "We got to him early enough to arrest the sepsis before it reached a crisis point. We've been doing everything possible for him and his chances of survival are improving. X-rays suggest that we have found and repaired all the damage done by the bullet, but we will keep a very close eye on his progress; we'll need to do several more series of x-rays as the swelling recedes to be absolutely certain nothing was missed. If we're lucky, we may be able to close the surgical site within the next few days. With complications, it could be a week or more."

"When shall I be permitted to visit him?"

"Not until the surgical site has been closed," Deyab said. "You can see him from the visiting area, but he must remain in isolation until he's no longer in danger of any environmental contamination. I understand your anxiety, absolutely, but this is essential for his recovery. I would allow your visit if I could. We have counselors on staff for the families of our critical care patients, if you need to talk with someone."

"I'm not family," Mycroft said, shaking his head. "I'm… I'm just a friend."

Deyab tilted her head slightly. "You're obviously quite close to him, and deeply affected by what's happened. If you don't feel you can take advantage of our services here, I would very strongly recommend visiting a private counselor, or your own if you have one. These kinds of injuries are extremely traumatic, not just for the victim, but for those close to them. I was informed that you were present when he was shot?"

Mycroft nodded, suppressing a shudder. "Yes. I was."

She reached out and put a hand on Mycroft's wrist. "I'm very sorry. It's an extremely difficult, overwhelming situation. There's no shame in needing some help to cope with everything you've been through."

"I'll take it under advisement. I'd like to see him, however, even if I can't physically be in the room with him," Mycroft said, wanting to avoid any further conversation on the topic of his emotions. Everything was difficult enough without people making assumptions and suggesting psychiatric care.

"Of course. This way, please."

He followed her to the isolation area. Greg was in a room with a large window, lying motionless but for the barely visible rising and falling of his chest, wreathed in tubes and wires. Mycroft could hardly see Greg's face due to the ventilator that was helping him breathe. He looked at all the machines that were connected to Greg's body and felt a profound despair. Only the monitors gave any evidence that Greg was still alive, their lights tracking pulse, respiration, and other vital information. "He looks like a corpse," Mycroft whispered.

Deyab stood next to Mycroft and looked through the window with him. "It's always very hard for people to see loved ones like this. I promise you, we're doing our best to ensure his survival. He was in reasonably good health for a man his age before he was shot, and that will help him recover. The presence of friends and family also helps, and you'll be allowed to be with him for limited periods as soon as he's able to have visitors."

"Thank you. I'd like to be alone with him now, if I may."

"If you need anything, just ask one of the staff."

What Mycroft needed was to be able to touch Greg, to physically reassure himself that the man was still breathing, but he said nothing. Deyab left him, and Mycroft waited a few moments in the silence. Finally, he rested one palm against the glass and tried to convince himself that Greg would live.

***

Sherlock was waiting in Mycroft's room when he got back from the hospital. Mycroft obviously hadn't slept much. He looked awful.

"What are you doing here?" Mycroft's voice was sharp but tired.

"Checking up on you, brother mine." Sherlock's eyes swept over him, quickly taking in every detail. "It didn't go well, did it?" Clothing wrinkled, face pinched as though he was in pain, Mycroft carried himself as though he expected the ceiling to collapse at any moment.

Mycroft shook his head. "I was allowed to stand outside the room and look in at him." He shivered. "He's…" Mycroft swallowed roughly. "They haven't closed the surgical site yet due to the peritonitis and the sepsis. There's too much risk of the infection growing worse and, though they believe they've repaired all the internal injuries, they can't be certain until the swelling has receded."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock tilted his head slightly. He could hardly believe what he was seeing, and he hoped he was hallucinating. 

Mycroft threw his coat on a chair and took his jacket off, loosening his tie. He looked exhausted and overheated. "What?"

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, disbelief in his voice, "you're crying."

"That's ridiculous," Mycroft snapped. 

"No, it's not." Sherlock moved cautiously toward Mycroft and reached up, touching his face. He showed Mycroft his fingertips; they were wet. "Explain yourself."

Mycroft, confused, lifted his own hand to his face and his eyes widened when he found the tears there. Panic spread on his face, and a humiliated blush coloured his cheeks. "Get out," he said.

Sherlock took him by the elbow and made him sit on the bed. "I've never seen you cry. Why are you crying? This makes no sense."

Mycroft pulled his pocket square from his jacket and wiped his eyes, a cascade of conflicting emotions flowing over his face. "You didn't see him, Sherlock. You didn't—" Mycroft's voice cracked and he fell silent, obviously trying desperately to conceal his emotions but failing miserably. Sherlock sat down next to him. Mycroft refused to look at him. "I did this to him. I've spent my entire life trying to keep people away so this wouldn't happen. Yet, there he is, barely alive, because of me. You were enough of a weakness. I didn't want anyone else endangered because of Eurus. She was—"

"Mycroft, stop." Mycroft glanced up at him, looking as though he expected to be hit. Sherlock hated to admit it, but Mycroft had reason to look that way, as Sherlock had in fact hit him more than once in the past. "She can't hurt him any more. She's dead, Mycroft." Sherlock tried to speak gently. The idea of Mycroft having tender feelings for anyone was still a shock. Sherlock had seen Mycroft angry, arrogant, or smug on any number of occasions. His brother's annoyance was a familiar companion, but love? It was difficult to accept, but all the evidence was there. 

"Moriarty is dead, and we saw how well that kept him from continuing to make our lives miserable." Mycroft's fear, not just for himself but for Lestrade, struck Sherlock hard.

"There's no evidence she planned beyond this," Sherlock insisted.

"I will remind you that there was no evidence she'd planned everything involving Moriarty, either." Mycroft struggled visibly to get himself back under control. He blinked away the still-flowing tears then scrubbed roughly at his eyes with his pocket square again. "Regardless, Greg's life is still at risk. He could, far too easily, still die of his injuries or the infection."

"And if that happens," Sherlock said, "it will not be your fault. You were placed in an impossible situation, and you know it. She intended to kill him. At the moment, difficult as it is to accept, this is the best possible outcome. He's still alive. There is a chance he'll recover." Guilt had never seemed an emotion that might be in his brother's personality anywhere. Sherlock had never imagined Mycroft feeling such a thing, but he'd been having to reevaluate everything he thought he'd known about his brother for most of his life.

"But I—"

"You shocked Eurus sufficiently that she decided to wound him rather than killing him. It could be rightly said that… that your love for him literally saved his life." Mycroft. In love. Desperate and hurting and terrified for the man he was in love with. A man who was one of Sherlock's few friends. Sherlock wasn't certain if he was jealous of Mycroft's affection, or relieved that his brother cared for Lestrade so much. 

"Indulging in clichès doesn't suit you, Sherlock." There was a tiny hint of Mycroft's usual venom in his words, but there was no heat behind it. They had so many years of anger, resentment, and misunderstanding between them that it was a struggle for both of them not to react purely out of habit.

Sherlock offered a quiet, "We need to stop hurting each other, Mycroft. I'm not sure how to do that." Emotions were really not his area. At all.

"Neither am I," Mycroft admitted, staring at his hands in his lap to avoid having to look at Sherlock. He looked vulnerable in a way Sherlock had never imagined seeing and it frightened him. He found himself genuinely worried for his brother.

"You need someone to look after you right now. You're not as strong as you've been pretending all these years. It's… distressing to realize that."

"I don't need anyone." Mycroft said, shaking his head slowly. "There _is_ no one, even if I did. There's never been anyone. There never will be, Sherlock. I'll get through this myself, just as I've dealt with everything else that's ever happened." 

Sherlock had known for a long time that Mycroft was lonely, despite his denials, but this flat, exhausted admission was alarming. "What will you do if he dies?" Sherlock asked, his voice quiet and hesitant.

Mycroft looked up at him, his face blank, eyes hollow and haunted. "I don't know."

The fact that Mycroft didn't even attempt to dissemble was as alarming as all the other new and deeply uncomfortable things Sherlock was learning about his brother. Mycroft had been an unwavering granite edifice in Sherlock's life, unyielding, unimpressed, and an implacable barrier that Sherlock had always done his best to circumvent. After Eurus, Sherlock was suddenly aware of the mask he'd never even seen, and he hardly dared test the depths of Mycroft's obviously painful emotions. "Then just promise me one thing," Sherlock said. "Call me. If… if he dies, if something goes wrong, you must call me."

"You never answer when I call, Sherlock. Why should I bother?"

A spike of nearly alien guilt made itself felt in Sherlock's chest. "I never answered because I thought you never had anything important to say." Perhaps that hadn't been true, but Sherlock had believed it at the time. "This, though. This would be important, Mycroft."

Mycroft raised his eyes and looked at Sherlock. "I'm sure you think I'm being ridiculous. Overreacting. Needlessly emotional."

"No." Sherlock shook his head. "Lestrade is my friend, Mycroft. I haven't many, as you might have noticed. And I only have one brother. Both of those things seem far more important now than they were a few days ago."

"I've always been aware that I had only one brother."

Sherlock remembered all the lists he'd made for Mycroft over the years, detailing his drug use. He remembered how hard it had been for him to go to Mycroft when they'd had to plot his disappearance, and how much he had resented needing Mycroft's help. He thought of Mycroft coming to Serbia for him, despite hating 'legwork,' and of Mycroft's words that Christmas at their parents' house — _your loss would break my heart_.

He hadn't known how to cope with the idea then; he had been at a complete loss for any response, and had not understood why Mycroft would say such a thing. Now, though, Sherlock had seen the gravity of the personal and familial burdens his brother had been bearing completely alone and he reached over and took Mycroft's hand.

Mycroft held on tightly and didn't let go.

***

The next morning, just as Mycroft was exiting the shower, his phone sounded with an alert for a text from Sherlock.

_Brace for impact._

Mycroft stared at the text for a moment. "Oh, no," he whispered. He dried himself quickly, then looked frantically around the room for his clothing, throwing on the suit he'd previously chosen for the day. He was still knotting his tie when there was a knock on the door.

"Who is it?" he growled, already knowing the answer.

"Mikey, open this door this instant," Mummy snapped, her voice harsh and angry. His hair was still damp. He hadn't shaved yet. Thankfully, his teeth were clean. With a sigh, Mycroft opened the door and his parents trooped in, followed by a remarkably sheepish-looking Sherlock. 

"Why do you insist on calling me _Mikey_ when you know my name is Mycroft? You don't call Sherlock "Billy" anymore," Mycroft grumbled.

"Sherlock is an adult," she answered, sharp and dismissive. "Why didn't you return my calls?" Mummy asked, glaring at him. 

Mycroft stepped back and closed the door behind them, desperately trying to hold on to his temper. He had no energy whatsoever for dealing with the viciousness of the usual family drama. Father sat in one of the chairs with his attention focussed on Mummy, who stood in the center of the small room with her arms crossed. Sherlock leaned against the wall near Mycroft.

"I spent all of yesterday at the hospital," Mycroft said. 

"That man may be Sherlock's friend, but he's not more important than responding to your mother," she insisted, fury in her eyes. " _Nothing_ right now is more important than you explaining yourself, young man. How could you tell us that Eurus was dead? How could you keep this from us for so many years? I demand to know what on earth you were thinking, you stupid boy. How could you do this to us?"

Mycroft sighed. "She's dead now, Mummy. It would not have made any difference."

"No difference!" Mummy drew herself up and opened her mouth again but Mycroft cut her off.

"You wouldn't have been able to see her. She was extremely dangerous. People _died_. She had killed before and would, without doubt, kill again if she had the opportunity. She was responsible for five deaths the day she was killed. She bombed Sherlock's flat only days ago. She attempted to murder Watson the way she murdered Victor Trevor, and she nearly succeeded." Mycroft's voice shook slightly. "The injuries Greg sustained at Sherrinford are severe enough that he may not survive, even now. She was homicidal, Mummy. She was not _misunderstood_. I did what was necessary to protect Sherlock. Telling you she was dead all those years ago was a kindness."

"Your definition of kindness is appalling."

"He did his best," Sherlock murmured, offering a feeble defense.

"Then he's very limited," Mummy growled.

Mycroft stiffened. "It was better than having to live with the knowledge of what she had become, better than knowing she was institutionalized and you would never be able to see her or speak with her again."

"We could have done _something_. She was our daughter!"

"And my sister," Mycroft said, quiet, knowing he was never going to reach his parents.

"You locked your own sister away for _decades_ without any contact with her family!"

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and glared back at her. "I spoke to her regularly."

"You're hardly what I would consider loving family. At this point I find it difficult to consider you family at all. You're incapable of love. You're only capable of deceit and trying to manipulate everyone around you."

Sherlock straightened up and stepped away from the wall. "That's enough!" he shouted. Everyone turned and looked at him. "What would you have had him do? He was fourteen years old when Eurus murdered Victor, tortured me, and burned our house down. _Fourteen_. Even Mycroft couldn't be expected to perform miracles at that age. If you want to blame someone, blame Uncle Rudy."

"Mycroft has done nothing but lie to us his entire life!"

Mycroft stared as Sherlock continued. "And when did _you_ tell me the truth about Eurus? When did you decide that it was best for me to _not even remember I had a sister_? To remember my best friend as a _dog_? How truthful was any of that?"

Mummy turned on Sherlock. "We thought she was _dead_! You were terribly traumatized and we thought it would be best if we supported you when you blocked out those memories."

"Listen to yourself. Your logic is exactly like Mycroft's." There was disgust and anger in Sherlock's voice. Mycroft just wanted the entire thing over and done with. The shouting would solve nothing. His family would be as it ever was. The only new thing in any of this was Sherlock attempting to come to his defense. "You were trying to be _kind_ , just as he was."

"There is no need for this exercise in futility," Mycroft said, frustrated and already exhausted though he'd been out of bed for less than an hour. "She is gone now. She can no longer attempt to murder Sherlock or his friends, but we may still lose Greg." It took iron control to say the words, but Mycroft refused to show any further emotion in the face of his mother's undiminished fury. Mummy was nearly vibrating with it. "I've spent my entire life attempting to protect Sherlock and to shield you from the incurable and uncontrollable madness that gripped my sister throughout her existence. Her utter detachment from the human species led her to regard everyone around her as nothing more than a mildly entertaining series of experiments." He looked at Sherlock, then back at his mother. "People were of no more value to her than mould specimens in a petri dish. You would never have reached her. You were never going to cure her with tea and biscuits. Uncle Rudy and I told you that before she murdered Victor, but you refused to listen."

Mummy's face hardened from fury to granite. "You destroyed this family, Mikey. You kept our daughter from us. You had no right—"

"He was the only one with any bloody sense!" Sherlock shouted. 

"Why are you defending him?" Mummy asked, incredulous. "He's treated you terribly! Without his lies and his interference—"

"I would likely be dead," Sherlock said, his voice flat and implacable. 

"That's nonsense. You'd have been fine. You've always been the responsible one." Mummy turned her attention back to Mycroft. "You are no son of mine," she spat. "What you've done is unforgivable."

Mycroft sighed, resigned, feeling the stab of every word. He really should have anticipated this outcome. "In that case, please leave. If you don't regard yourself as my family anymore, I have no reason to allow you to remain in my presence and continue abusing me." He stepped back and opened the door as Mummy stood and looked at him, slack-jawed in disbelief. Mycroft gestured with his other hand. "Now. I have someone important to visit in hospital and your intrusion is keeping me from seeing him."

Mummy looked at Sherlock and Father. "I'd suggest doing as he says," Sherlock said, waving a hand toward the open door. "I wouldn't put it past him to have you removed if you won't go on your own. He has rather a habit of abducting people and having them taken to dank warehouses when he wants them intimidated."

"This isn't over," Mummy snarled, taking Father by the arm and hurrying to the door.

"Yes," Mycroft said, his voice cold as bared steel as he escorted them out. "It is." He looked at Sherlock. "And where do you stand?"

Sherlock came to Mycroft and put a hand on his shoulder. "Here, I should think."

Mycroft regarded him cautiously for a second before he closed the door behind his parents. "Why did you tell them where I was?"

"I didn't," Sherlock said. He sighed. "John did."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Of course. His revenge, I'm sure."

"I came hoping to do some kind of damage control. I wasn't expecting it to get this bad."

"For all your observational skills, it still astonishes me that you never managed to see how they have always acted." Mycroft turned away from his brother and walked to the window, looking out into the street below. He gazed in the direction of the hospital, though he wasn't able to see it from where he stood. "I don't know why you're bothering to stay. You've never made any secret of your despite for me."

"Because I was wrong, Mycroft. I have no idea how to change things between us, but I was wrong." Sherlock's voice was strained and he was obviously struggling with the idea.

"And what do you want from me?" Mycroft asked, still angry and hurting. "Absolution? A brotherly embrace? Phone calls at Christmas?" Bitterness permeated his words and ached in his chest.

"A chance to start over," Sherlock answered. "Neither of us are good at these… _emotions_." Mycroft watched Sherlock wave a dismissive hand, the image of his brother reflected in the window he gazed through. "Surely, you must have some idea how to go about this sort of thing."

"You're the one with _friends_ ," Mycroft said, not turning to look at Sherlock, but continuing to observe him in the window's reflection. "A feat I've never managed."

"It's not impossible."

Mycroft shrugged. "Perhaps. I need time, Sherlock. I need..." He sighed. "I need Greg to survive," he said quietly.

"Caring about people hurts," Sherlock said. 

"Precisely why it isn't an advantage." Mycroft couldn't shut it off, couldn't excise the way he felt about Gregory Lestrade, any more than he could remove one of his own lungs. 

"But it provides a certain sense of euphoria when that emotion is returned." There was a touch of something melancholy in Sherlock's voice. Mary, Mycroft thought, and Sherlock's frequently difficult relationship with John.

"Does it?" Mycroft's question was flat, almost a denial. He had to admit that the idea of Greg returning even a fraction of the feeling Mycroft nurtured for him offered a tempting glimpse of warmth and comfort, but it was something Mycroft couldn't afford to allow himself. There was no reason to torture himself with unattainable fantasy. "Such things seem terribly temporary, doomed to failure."

"Everything is temporary, Mycroft. That doesn't mean some things aren't worth pursuing. Or some people."

"This isn't the time to consider such things, Sherlock."

"On the contrary, brother mine. This is precisely the time to consider such things. Mortality has a way of emphasising the importance of the people we care about. Much as I have wanted to deny it, you are one of those people. When Eurus attempted to force me to choose between you and John…"

Mycroft nodded, the memory still fresh and bloody before him. "Ending your own life would not have been the right choice, Sherlock. I thought John would have a better chance of ensuring Greg's survival. You didn't need me. I tried to make it easier for you."

"We're both still here," Sherlock said, apparently attempting to be reassuring.

"A fact for which I am most grateful." Mycroft turned from the door and sat in one of the chairs in the small room. He rested one elbow wearily on the desk. 

Sherlock joined him, sitting in the other chair. He braced his elbows on his knees and steepled his fingers before his face, as he so often did when thinking. "We have to assume that Greg will survive this. John is worried and wants to examine Greg's medical records, but he can't leave Rosie right now."

Mycroft glared at Sherlock, knowing the sorts of things his brother got up to when his back was turned. "I know you want that to happen, but at the moment I wouldn't advise it. He's not Greg's physician, and he has other responsibilities. If I hear of you attempting to lay your hands on Greg's records in any way, I shall not take it kindly. There will be absolutely no interference with his treatment and _nothing_ will be done that will introduce any new risk to him whatsoever. If you want to know what's happening, you can ask Doctor Deyab, as I did. She's been authorized to release information to you if necessary, but the records themselves will be left strictly alone. I trust I have made myself clear."

Sherlock just nodded. "Quite." He paused before he spoke again. "I'm worried about him, too."

"I know," Mycroft murmured, less angry after Sherlock's acknowledgment.

"John said it could be months before Greg recovers enough to return to work, assuming he's able to." 

Months. Mycroft had done his research. Some people were never the same after an incident of this sort. Greg might well never return to work again. That, though, was a distant, unknowable future. "We'll worry about that when we're certain he'll survive."

"What are you going to do now?" Sherlock asked, curious but subdued.

Mycroft's head bowed. "About Greg or about what just happened?"

"The latter."

Mycroft shook his head sadly. "Mummy can be quite petty. I assume she's going to insist that I may no longer live in the family estate when I'm not at the London flat. I'm going to have to arrange for my things to be moved to a new house." He resisted the urge to groan. "I'm going to have to buy a new house." He put that item on the list of things to ask Christina to look into before he got back to London.

"Do you really think—"

"Yes, Sherlock, I do."

Sherlock's brow wrinkled. "I don't understand what happened. She seemed perfectly capable of forgiving Eurus for everything she's done, but for the secrets you've been forced to keep through no fault of your own, she's disowned you. It makes no sense."

Mycroft rubbed at his eyes with one hand, weary and emotionally exhausted. "She's resented me from the beginning. I have done everything a dutiful son could possibly have done within the constraints that circumstance forced upon me, but it was never enough to make up for being unexpected and unwanted. I suppose she'll be happier with you as her only child."

"I won't be." Sherlock's voice was petulant. He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, glowering.

Mycroft pointedly did not roll his eyes. "You're rarely happy about anything."

"That's beside the point," Sherlock grumbled.

"I have an immense number of things to deal with, brother mine. I've no desire to remain here pointlessly conversing with you when I have to arrange for my personal belongings to be removed from the house, and commence searching for a new one."

Sherlock stood. "You've not eaten yet."

"No." Mycroft wasn't certain he could at this point.

"You need to come with me. I'll see to it you get something." Sherlock gestured to the door. "We both know you won't have more than tea and perhaps a biscuit if you're left to your own devices right now."

It was not what Mycroft had been expecting. "Sherlock, this is not necessary."

"Shut up, Mycroft. You've spent your entire life attempting to take care of me. Allow me for once to return the favor." He looked like he was not going to allow a refusal.

Mycroft was perfectly capable of pushing food around his plate for the requisite amount of time it would take for Sherlock to eat his own breakfast. "Very well," he grumbled.

"After that, you can go see him again. Obviously, he won't know you're there, but it seems to help you, at least." Sherlock opened the door and Mycroft followed him out.

It was going to be a long day.

***

The next three weeks were difficult and exhausting. Mycroft ended up traveling back and forth to London to deal with the debriefing, his inevitable temporary leave, and the time-consuming and unpleasant task of finding a new home while his mother raged and insisted he get his personal belongings out of the family estate immediately. Greg improved slowly despite some complications, but was not taken off life support until the day before they intended to allow him to return to consciousness.

Mycroft briefly met Greg's mother one afternoon. She was a round woman of middling height, with a rough but handsome face and thick hair gone completely white. He'd been aware she was visiting but had been attempting to avoid meeting her, at least in part to avoid a conversation about his sister and his own crushing sense of guilt. When they did speak, she correctly discerned his identity. "Greg's talked about you — you're that government bloke that's Sherlock's brother, aren't you?" Her accent was heavier and less educated than Greg's, but they sounded enough alike that his heart twisted painfully at the reminder.

Mycroft nodded, concerned about what she might have been told. "I'm afraid so."

She tilted her head, her sharp brown eyes much like her son's. "You look worried about that. You shouldn't be. He thinks you're all right, you know. Doesn't complain near as much about you as he does about your brother. That one's a right piece of work. Anyway, you're here and worrying about my lad, so you must be a good one." Mycroft was content to leave it at that, and let her spend time alone with her son.

He arranged for Greg's transfer back to London, and ensured that he would receive the best quality care as he recovered. Mycroft was far too busy with his life collapsing around him to take much care of himself, though. Christina intervened a number of times and Lady Smallwood had spoken with him weekly, offering her own version of support and friendship, though Mycroft was hesitant to accept.

"You are actually irreplaceable at the moment, Mycroft," Alicia said. "You need time to sort things, obviously, but I'm not about to let anyone attempt to drive you out of your position over this. You were as impartial as it was possible to be under the circumstances. It's true you've shown an unprecedented amount of favour to your brother, but when it came to Eurus, your precautions and your management of the situation were far better than anyone else's would have been. You were able to extract information and gain some use from her for years. No one else would have been able to do so without it leading much more immediately to disaster."

"I have enemies, Alicia. We both know they are working to displace me while I'm dealing with all of this." Mycroft was resigned to a hard fight to retain his position and his reputation.

"They won't succeed. Sir Edwin and I will see to that." Her answer was supremely confident. Mycroft was not so sanguine. He'd already seen his adversaries circling like sharks, and three weeks was an interminable amount of time when dealing with the sort of political and intelligence machinations that could, in essence, depose a high-level analyst like himself. Having Alicia and Edwin on his side was encouraging but not enough in itself to ensure his continued power, or even his safety. A loss of confidence in his ability at the highest levels would be devastating.

Mycroft wasn't there when Greg returned to consciousness. He'd known Greg's mother would be in attendance, and felt that the moment should be for her alone. The many obligations and privileges of family had been driven into him at a very early age, even if he was suffering from the severing of his own familial connections. Mycroft wasn't able to see Greg until two days later, and that distressed him far more than it should have. It was, he supposed, the combination of so many disparate stresses that left him feeling profoundly uneasy and vulnerable. He hated it.

Greg was asleep when Mycroft entered the room but woke shortly after Mycroft sat in the chair beside the bed. He was pale and emaciated after three weeks of unconsciousness and inactivity. Greg's body was much weakened by the ravages of the infection he'd been fighting, but Mycroft was, at last, convinced the man would survive.

"Mycroft," Greg said, his voice rough and weak and far too quiet. Greg lifted one hand, slowly and carefully reaching out to him. Surprised by the gesture, Mycroft took Greg's trembling hand and held it. Greg squeezed but had very little strength. Mycroft moved closer so that Greg could rest his arm on the bed, but didn't let go.

"Greg," he answered, his thumb stroking slowly over the back of Greg's hand. "I'm more relieved than you can imagine to see you awake." He hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about everything. I know you must be angry with me about what happened. You have every right to be, of course—"

"Mycroft, stop." Greg just looked at him, pain and exhaustion plain on his face, but Mycroft could see no anger there, no resentment. "Too tired for this," he murmured. "Not angry." He shook his head in a minute but definite negation. "Sherlock and John?"

"They're as well as can be expected after what happened." Greg's eyes started slipping closed, but Mycroft wasn't surprised by the man's inability to stay awake. "John and his daughter will be moving into Sherlock's flat soon. It's nearly restored."

"Good." Greg's fingers tightened around Mycroft's hand and Mycroft found himself wanting nothing more than to take the man into his arms and hold him until both of them somehow became whole again. He settled for continuing to hold Greg's hand, his thumb moving gently back and forth.

"What about… her?"

"Dead," Mycroft whispered.

"Oh." He sounded uncertain.

Mycroft continued, shifting the subject back to the previous question. "Sherlock wishes to visit you, but I told him he's not to come until you're well enough to deal with him."

Greg made a noise that might have been a hum of agreement as his eyes finally closed in uneasy sleep.

***

Pain was a constant in Greg's universe. His body had never felt so abused and miserable before; he felt weak as a newborn kitten. His mum was there frequently and, though he'd only seen Mycroft once so far, she'd said the man had been haunting his hospital room the whole time. Greg remembered most of what had happened to him at the prison, though the time after he'd been shot was spotty at best. Despite being drugged to the gills, he was having nightmares about the whole experience. Post-traumatic stress wasn't actually a surprise, given the horrifying things that had happened.

Mycroft had attempted to apologize to Greg, but he'd been far too exhausted to deal with the man's obviously intense feelings of guilt. From what Greg remembered, he didn't think Mycroft actually owed him an apology anyway. It wasn't his fault that Greg had been kidnapped and tortured by a lunatic, despite being related to her. 

The conversation was inevitable, though, Greg knew.

Lying in bed hooked to every sort of tube and wire known to man and barely capable of moving left Greg with more than ample time to think, at least when he was awake enough. He'd thought a lot about Mycroft and what had been said when Greg thought he was going to die. It was still confusing and Greg could hardly imagine it might be true. The idea of Mycroft Holmes in love with anyone seemed improbable at best. Greg had always known Mycroft wasn't the wall of ice he tried to project, but most of that involved Sherlock. However improbable it might seem, though, Mycroft's presence here at the hospital was telling.

Mycroft had looked completely devastated, both when Eurus had demanded that Mycroft order his death, and when he'd seen him beside the bed only a day ago. Greg looked up as Mycroft entered the room quietly. 

"Greg. It's good to see you awake again."

He still looked rough, Greg thought. "How are you doing?" Greg asked.

Mycroft shook his head. "That's not important."

Greg closed his eyes for a moment and took a breath before opening them again. "Yeah, actually, it is. Been worried about you." He waved a hand at the chair beside his bed. "Stay a bit."

"Thank you." Mycroft looked uneasy, his forehead wrinkled, his eyes tight with pain, or stress, or worry, Greg wasn't certain which. He remained standing, looking down at Greg.

"What happened out there," Greg said, "it wasn't your fault." 

"I'm afraid I disagree." Mycroft sat carefully in the chair Greg had indicated. "I shall, however, do everything in my power to make some kind of amends to you. I've never wished to see you endangered or harmed but it seems that Sherlock and I are incapable of keeping those close to us out of harm's way."

Close to him. It echoed some of what Mycroft had said out there and Greg found himself curious about the whole thing. He was in enough pain that focus was difficult, and holding up a book to read was out of the question. The telly was too noisy and distracting. But listening to Mycroft wasn't too much effort, at least not for the moment. "You lot have more enemies than most," Greg admitted.

"It's why I never... " Mycroft hesitated.

Greg rolled his hand and offered an open palm to Mycroft, who looked down at the proffered hand and, after a moment, threaded his fingers through Greg's. "It's okay. Just talk to me. Just be here."

"You're being far kinder to me than I deserve."

"Not really."

"How much do you remember about Sherrinford, Greg? The facility where we were taken."

"A fair bit. I imagine somebody will want a statement at some point."

Mycroft nodded. "Yes, but not just yet. You'll have a little more time to recover first. I've done what I could to keep them from your bedside for a few days."

"Talk to me," Greg said again, contemplating the warmth of Mycroft's hand twined with his own. "Mum says you've been here a lot. I'm surprised you've had time."

"Administrative leave." Mycroft shrugged. "It's just as well, really. Looking for a house is far more time consuming than I'd like."

"A house?" Greg was confused. "Thought you had a flat."

"He does." Sherlock's deep baritone intruded from the door. "He's talking about the family home, but Mummy's disowned him."

Greg looked over at Sherlock then back at Mycroft. "What? Why?"

"Why are you here, Sherlock?" Mycroft tensed as Sherlock looked at their joined hands, and started to pull his hand away, but Greg tightened his fingers slightly, resisting, and Mycroft stilled.

"I haven't had the time to come haunt the halls as you have, brother mine." He looked at Greg. "How are you feeling?"

Just thinking about answering Sherlock was exhausting. "You really want to know, or are you asking for a forensics report?"

Sherlock looked vaguely embarrassed. "I'd like to know, Greg," he said, more subdued than Greg would have expected. He was slightly surprised that Sherlock remembered his name.

"Feel like crap," Greg answered, "but it's better than dead."

"I must admit, I'm surprised you're accepting my brother's advances so quickly." Sherlock wasn't bothering to conceal his amusement.

Mycroft glowered and opened his mouth to speak, but Greg answered first. "He's not advancing anything. Nothing wrong with a bloke visiting a friend in hospital." He didn't let go of Mycroft's hand.

Sherlock looked at their hands again. "Denial is so pedestrian." Greg was slightly surprised he hadn't called it 'boring.'

"We haven't discussed the issue, Sherlock," Mycroft said, his voice slightly sharp in warning.

"Leave it," Greg said. "Your brother and I will talk about it when we're ready. How's the flat, and John?"

Sherlock accepted the topic change and Greg was able to simply lie there and listen through his exhaustion for quite some time while Sherlock rambled on about the repairs to his Baker Street flat, John's plans for returning there to live with Sherlock, and several stories about Rosie's antics. It gave Greg a chance to rest without being too bored, as the medical monitors beeped and hummed in the background. Mycroft, much to Greg's surprise, stayed with him as Sherlock talked. He said little himself, but the two seemed unusually civil to one another.

Sherlock spent some time engaged in disappointed whining that Greg wouldn't be back at Scotland Yard anytime soon. Greg would have engaged in a bit of it himself, had he not been so miserable and incapable of functioning. As Sherlock rose to leave, Mycroft rose as well, but Greg didn't let go of his hand. Mycroft looked at him for a moment. He nodded, then bid his brother goodbye.

"You'll stay?" Greg asked, once they were alone again.

"Of course, if you wish." He looked hesitant.

"I don't know how awake I'll be, but… it would be nice if you were here. If you have time, I mean." After everything that had happened, he disliked the idea of being alone.

"As I noted, I'm on leave for the moment," Mycroft said, seating himself again. "I have more time on my hands than I'm used to. I don't want to keep you from resting, though. I do worry."

"Been a long time since anyone did, except maybe Mum."

"Perhaps not so long as you assume." Mycroft's thumb traced softly along Greg's skin. He hesitated for a moment, and then continued. "The situation with my sister made it impossible for me to justify… anything with anyone else. I did my best to remain isolated, but…" He trailed off, looking away from Greg toward the window for a moment. When he looked back, Greg could see guilt and sorrow and strain in his eyes. "Despite everything, I found it impossible to remain entirely detached from you. When you were endangered by Moriarty, I did everything possible to ensure that you remained safe. It wasn't just for your sake, or for Sherlock's."

Greg had never heard too much about what had happened, and what little he'd heard had come after the fact. Sherlock had glossed things over, though John had offered a few more details. "I knew there was an assassin in the office. John said."

Mycroft nodded. "I will admit to feeling a certain amount of personal satisfaction at his removal. My primary concerns were your safety, and Sherlock's."

"And your sister was responsible for a lot of what happened with Moriarty?"

Mycroft nodded again. "Yes, though I fear at least some of that was my fault as well." 

"Already told you, I don't blame you," Greg said, growing more exhausted but wanting to hear what Mycroft had to say. It was so rare for the man to reveal anything at all, much less information as personal, and as intimate, as this.

"You should."

Greg shook his head. "Not gonna."

"For most of my life, I have been an incredibly dangerous person to know. It wasn't entirely because of my sister; my position has its own share of, shall we say, personal costs. I have no friends. The majority of my various… intimate encounters have been both short-lived and anonymous, simply as a way of protecting myself and the people around me."

"That… sounds really lonely." It sounded awful, actually.

"It is," Mycroft murmured. "I've never really got on with my family very well. Not that anything about either my family or my life could be considered within the realm of normal."

"Not that surprising. And Sherlock said your parents disowned you over this." Greg could see the toll the conversation was taking on Mycroft. He tightened his hand around Mycroft's for a moment, trying to be reassuring.

"Yes." Mycroft's eyes tightened, betraying an ocean of pain under his calm mask.

"But, why me? Why would you care about me?" The whole thing confused Greg terribly, and it wasn't just the pain meds and the long illness. 

Mycroft sighed. "I know that you don't return my interest, Greg."

"I'm not so sure that's true." He was, in fact, having a great deal of trouble sorting his feelings at the moment, but he couldn't say he'd ever had an actual lack of interest in Mycroft Holmes. "More like, I didn't realize it was a thing that might be on your radar. You didn't seem the type to be interested in anyone, at all."

"Which was the intended impression." Mycroft watched Greg carefully as they talked.

"So let's take some time to get to know each other better." His eyes were starting to slip closed despite himself.

"You need rest, Greg. You mustn't stress yourself too much. You—" Mycroft stopped, swallowing roughly, then took a sharp, deep breath and let it out slowly. "You nearly died. You're still very fragile right now, and you've been awake for quite some time. I have no idea how you tolerated Sherlock's presence for so long while you were in this condition."

"Was half asleep through most of it," Greg admitted. He hated the constant exhaustion and pain, and how difficult it was to focus on things.

"Please, sleep," Mycroft pleaded. "I'll be nearby."

"Good." Greg managed a smile, relieved by the statement. Knowing Mycroft was near might help the nightmares, he thought. "Glad to hear it."

"I'm right here. You're safe. We're all safe."

Greg held that thought like he held Mycroft's hand and drifted into a drained and aching sleep.

***

It was nearly another month before the doctors would even consider allowing Greg to leave the hospital. While there had only been one bullet, the damage it caused had been severe, as had the effects of the sepsis, and Greg's system was considerably weakened by the infection. 

Mycroft visited as frequently as he could manage, through all the complications that had resulted from everything that had happened at Sherrinford. There had been debriefings, interviews, mandatory psychological counseling, and several quite extensive changes in his responsibilities at work. The continuing repercussions of Mycroft's parents disowning him, and the necessary purchase of a new home and subsequent move were exhausting. 

Greg always seemed relieved to see Mycroft and, as Greg recovered, their conversations grew longer and slowly became more intimate. Mycroft spoke with Greg about Eurus and his childhood, offering details he'd shared with no one else. Greg spoke of his fears about the long recovery, and worried about whether or not he'd ever be able to return to work. "I'm not sure how I'm going to cope when I get home," he said, sounding discouraged and uneasy. "It's hard enough just being up and walking a bit, much less trying to do all the things you have to do just to get on — the shopping and the laundry and the washing up." He sighed. "Everything's still so bloody exhausting."

"Physical therapy is always painful and exhausting," Mycroft said. "Your doctors have said you're making satisfactory progress. I'll admit I'm pleased by how much better you've been doing this week. That said, I'm sure it's all very frustrating."

Greg nodded. "Mum keeps saying I should come stay with her while I heal up, but she's honestly too old to be my nursemaid. Even if I need somebody to help for a while — and I probably will — I can't justify asking her to take care of me. She's pretty spry for her age, but I can't do that to her." He shook his head. "Besides, I really don't want to be living with my mum at my age."

Mycroft hesitated for a moment, uncertain. "You could, if you wished, stay with me for a while. I can have someone in to help you, my flat has enough room, and it wouldn't have the problematic appearance of living with one's mother as an adult."

For a moment, Greg looked like he was going to reject the offer out of hand but then he closed his mouth and Mycroft could see him considering it. Eventually, he sighed. "I'm not sure, Mycroft. I know you're back at work now, even though things have changed there. I don't know what having me around, needing someone for home care to come in, would do to your security issues."

"You are one of the very few people I trust, Greg." Mycroft leaned forward slightly in his chair. The idea of Greg refusing the offer left him uneasy. Even knowing Eurus was dead and that she couldn't personally harm Greg anymore hadn't entirely stilled his anxieties. There was little way of knowing if she'd prepared further surprises for the future. The mess with Moriarty had been years in the making, after all. There were more personal issues, however, and Mycroft thought that perhaps the time had come to show his hand. "I would feel more at ease if you were in a place where I knew you were safe and well cared for."

"You would?" Greg's brow wrinkled and his head tilted slightly. "I didn't realize you were still worried about that."

"Yes. Always. Though…" Even considering making the admission left him feeling out of his depth. He looked at his hands. "Over the years, Sherlock has accused me of being… lonely." He made himself continue speaking, despite how difficult the words were. "I would always tell him that I wasn't. I had my work, my books and films. I've never been bored."

"I sense a but."

Mycroft nodded, acknowledging Greg's suspicion. "But all of that, all of the issues with Eurus, the distance from my brother and my parents, and my uncle's insistence that caring was a trap never managed to still that part of me that sometimes wondered what it would be like to have someone in my life. A friend, a lover." Mycroft shrugged, thinking that he must sound quite pitiful, really. "I don't suppose it matters, ultimately. But the truth is, Sherlock was right. I am lonely."

"You're just as human as the rest of us, Mycroft." Greg's voice was surprisingly gentle. Mycroft steeled himself and looked up as Greg continued. "For all that I'm glad I got divorced, I still miss having someone around. Some folks are more solitary than others. I'm not really built for being alone."

"It's true that I need considerably more privacy than most people. I can't stand the vast majority of humanity. I find them exhausting and tedious. You've never been in that category for me."

"You're saying you could tolerate having me around." Greg gave Mycroft a tired, crooked smile.

"I'm saying I want to tolerate having you around." Mycroft returned Greg's smile with a small, shy one of his own.

Greg's smile faded. "Mycroft, we still haven't talked about… what you said out there. About me."

"I know." Mycroft's smile vanished as well, and he reached out and offered Greg his hand. Greg took it, his hand warm and more steady than it had been. "I've been waiting until you felt well enough to address it. I didn't want to burden you with my emotional dilemmas when you weren't able to think clearly or to express your own feelings without the pain and the drugs overshadowing everything."

"Fair enough," Greg said. "But now you're asking me to come and stay with you. It's time to discuss this."

Mycroft took a bracing breath and let it out slowly. Greg didn't appear averse to either the conversation or the idea, which was encouraging. In the time they'd spent talking over the past few weeks, Mycroft had nurtured a small glimmer of hope regarding Greg's affections. Their joined hands at this moment suggested that his hope might be justified. "I have been in love with you for a very long time," he said. Mycroft's voice was soft and hesitant. "As I've noted, I chose to remain isolated as much as possible in an attempt to protect myself, and to protect you, from my sister, and from others who might wish to harm me through anyone I cared for."

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Though, you have to admit, me being associated with Sherlock was more than enough to put a target on my back through that entire time."

"Quite. It was still less risky than being anywhere near me. There was no way to entirely eliminate the danger, but I did my best to minimize it. Moriarty's assassin was neither the first, nor the only time I acted to protect you."

"Really?" Greg's brow wrinkled. "I wasn't aware there were other threats."

"There were three other incidents. The first was shortly after you began working with Sherlock. One of his drug dealers wanted to retain Sherlock's business and apparently believed that eliminating you would remove any temptation for Sherlock to attempt to control his addictions."

"Seriously? What did you do?" Mycroft could see the confusion and concern in Greg's eyes.

"I ensured that certain necessary evidence reached the appropriate persons. He was arrested and sentenced. You are no longer of interest to him." It hadn't been quite as simple as Mycroft made it sound, but it was the absolute truth of the matter. "The other incidents were handled in similar fashion. Despite Sherlock's claims over the years, I'm not in the business of assassinating people, regardless of any potential justification." 

Greg shook his head. "No. I saw how you were at Sherrinford. Sherlock was wrong about you. What he did to you there was terrible."

Some of Mycroft's anxiety eased at Greg's words. He knew there would be more questions later, when Greg was feeling better and the context of their conversation was different, but Mycroft could see the shift in his demeanour. "I will always do everything in my power to ensure your safety." He needed to reassure Greg, to let the man know he would protect him if it were at all possible.

"But why would you want to deal with an invalid in your flat?" Greg's hand tightened around Mycroft's. "I'm going to be bloody inconvenient for a long time yet, from what the docs have said. I'd just be in the way." The worry in Greg's voice ached in Mycroft's chest.

"Is it so impossible to imagine that I might want to have you near, to know that you're well cared for and comfortable?"

"You don't even like people most of the time, Mycroft."

Mycroft sighed. "Yet here I am, in your hospital room, where I have been visiting you regularly since my sister tried to murder you. I come to see you despite the noise, the inconvenience, the people, and the increased risk of contracting some sort of communicable disease. I am here because I wish to be in your presence, because I am concerned about you. I can assure you that your residence in my flat would not be an inconvenience to me. I would not offer to give up part of my privacy in such a manner for anyone that I did not genuinely wish to have in my home." 

Greg thought for a few moments, then nodded. "Okay, I can believe that. I just… what happened out there was so bloody horrifying. You know I'm having nightmares about it."

Mycroft nodded. "So am I." Nearly every night, he would relive pieces of the terror they'd experienced. Intrusive thoughts plagued him during the day, as well. 

"I think the worst thing was knowing she wanted to kill you, too. Watching her torture you like that." Mycroft watched the waves of emotion ripple over Greg's face — fear, sadness, regret, concern.

"We've survived, Greg. I would like to believe that, perhaps together, we can find ways to move past what happened." 

Greg bit his lower lip, pensive. "I hope you're right," he murmured. "Look, I know you're not a really physical person, but do you think… would you consider giving me a hug? Because I really need one right now."

Mycroft's heart nearly stopped from his shock at the request. "Yes," he whispered, wondering if he was dreaming. Greg tugged at his hand and Mycroft moved from his chair to sit on the bed at Greg's hip, then leaned in and carefully, gently, took Greg in his arms.

Greg sighed and his arms wrapped around Mycroft's waist. They sat like that for a moment, and Mycroft just let himself feel the warmth of Greg's body, trying to convince himself this was real. The sheer, overwhelming physicality of it hit then, with the force of a bullet, and Mycroft's breath caught. He buried his face in the angle of Greg's neck and shoulder, shivering, and he found himself clinging to the man, emotions in utter turmoil, his body trembling with the force of it. Greg's fingers clenched in the cloth of Mycroft's shirt and he pulled Mycroft closer, hands moving up to Mycroft's shoulders.

Drowning, Mycroft gasped and shuddered. "I love you," he whispered. "Please, let me take care of you. So much of this is my fault. I need to be sure you'll be all right."

Greg nodded and pressed a kiss to Mycroft's temple, then buried his nose in Mycroft's thinning hair. "It's not your fault. We're going to be all right. We'll get through this."

"Stay with me."

Another nod and Greg said, "I will, I will. Thank you. God, you don't even know what a relief it is that you've offered. I had no idea what I was going to do if I had to live alone while I was still feeling this awful."

"You wouldn't have been without assistance, I assure you." He couldn't bear the thought of letting go of Greg and they held one another with a mutual desperation that seemed endless. The physical contact filled Mycroft with a sense of comfort and reassurance that he hadn't imagined possible. It was absolutely sensual without the slightest hint of sexual arousal, another thing Mycroft had never imagined. He rarely touched other people, but this — he was uncertain there could ever be enough of this in his world. He wished, absolutely beyond any logic, that they could occupy the same space, atoms vibrating together inseparably. Mycroft caressed Greg's back slowly, the friction of cloth and the warmth of flesh under his palm completely absorbing.

"Feels good," Greg murmured. "I really needed this. Thank you."

"I had no idea it could feel like this," Mycroft said, astonished.

"When was the last time anyone hugged you?" Greg's question was cautious.

"I was five." Mycroft had an eidetic memory, which was often useful, but nearly as often a burden. He remembered his mother's final hug quite clearly, and her admonition that he didn't need such things anymore, as he was quite mature for his age.

Greg moved away from him slightly and looked into Mycroft's eyes. "Five?" His shocked disbelief would have been amusing had it not been so genuine. "Good Christ, how is that even possible?"

"I was not a particularly lovable child." It was certainly his family's opinion of him.

The disbelief turned to pain, rather than the pity Mycroft had imagined he would get for the comment. "I don't believe that for an instant. It's… that's…" Greg's mouth opened and closed a couple of times, soundless, before he pulled Mycroft close again. "I think I want to punch your whole family. How could anyone treat a kid like that?"

"The past is what it is." Greg's concern for him was as overwhelming in its own way as the feel of Greg's body in his arms. It left his head spinning in a rather frightening manner. "I've rarely actually wanted to be in close physical proximity to most people. It's not something I missed. It wasn't something I thought I needed."

"But this? Now?" Greg nuzzled at Mycroft's hairline, his hands moving slowly on Mycroft's back and shoulders.

"It's like rain in the desert." Greg's touch soaked into him and the love Mycroft had felt for this man for so many years roared in his ears, a secret, cherished spark becoming a blaze of such intensity that Mycroft feared losing himself to it entirely. "I don't understand how you've done this to me. Why do I suddenly _need_ this so much?" he whispered. "I feel like I'll shatter if you let go of me."

"Sometimes… sometimes you find the right person and things change. You change. What you need, what you desire. What happened to us, you can't go through something like that and come out the other side the same."

"I hate feeling this exposed," Mycroft said. "It's terrifying."

Greg nodded. "It is, a little bit, for everybody. I can only imagine it's worse for you because you've never felt like this before. It's all new, and you like things predictable and safe." He looked into Mycroft's eyes, one hand trailing gently up Mycroft's cheek. Greg's thumb caressed the arc of his cheekbone, slow and soft. "You don't have to be afraid of me."

"And yet, I am. Your mere existence holds a power over me that has no rival. What I feel for you is, frankly, overwhelming. I have no idea how to manage emotions of this intensity. I've never had to before."

"I never want to hurt you, Mycroft."

"I've already hurt you. I've nearly killed you. Yet, here you are in my arms, despite that. Is this simply seeking comfort, or… or do you return some measure of affection for me?" Mycroft had to know. He didn't think he could bear feeling like this, knowing Greg wasn't interested. He pulled away slightly, trying to read Greg's expression.

"I want you here," Greg answered. "I want to give this a chance, see where it goes. I don't… I haven't ever been in any kind of long-term thing with a bloke before, but I think… I think I could with you." The explosion of relief Mycroft felt was intense and dizzying. "You're the kind of person I need, Mycroft. You're steady. You're dependable. You'd never in a million years step out behind my back. You _want_ me, despite how bloody messed up I am right now."

"I've always wanted you," Mycroft murmured. Greg's brown eyes shimmered with emotion and he drew Mycroft close again, holding him tight. Mycroft returned the embrace with all his strength. "Allow me to care for you, to love you as you deserve," he continued. "Nothing would please me more than to be offered that honor."

Greg made a soft, amused sound. "If you really do want my useless arse in your flat — in your life — you can have me there."

"I should very much like to kiss you, if I may," Mycroft breathed, hardly daring to believe his good fortune. Greg turned his face to him, and their first kiss was gentle and tentative, filled with immense promise. Lips and tongues met and caressed and Mycroft found himself breathless, all thought driven from him. He became a creature of pure sensation, immersed in the emotions that reverberated between his ribs. A small sound of absolute wonder escaped from him with his breath.

"Look at you," Greg whispered as they parted, a brilliant smile on his face. "Look at you. I swear to god, I've never seen you happy before."

"I think I've never _been_ happy before," Mycroft said, stunned. "Not like this." He tugged Greg closer again, revelling in the embrace. The emotion was similar to things he'd felt with his favourite books and films, but the quality of it was entirely different — deeper and richer, suffusing him with something completely unidentifiable. He knew it was something he could only feel in Greg's presence, in his arms. Love was a part of it but, for Mycroft, love had always been steeped in emptiness and pain. Loving his family was an exercise in despair, and loving Greg had always meant self-denial and a longing detached from any hope of fulfillment. Love was a thing best locked down and denied, because to allow himself to feel it, to express it, would be emotional suicide. The very idea of happiness rooted in a relationship with someone else was utterly alien. He'd never imagined the existence of such a thing.

They sat like that, holding one another, for what felt like forever. Mycroft never wanted it to end.

The voice of Greg's mother broke the spell that held them both together. "Well, look at you lot." Mycroft, startled, backed away and Greg lay back in the bed. They both looked at her, blushing. "Must admit, I'd wondered, what with you here all the time like that.

"I… erm… I'm going to be staying with Mycroft when I get out of here, Mum," Greg said.

"I should hope so," she said with a chuckle, "seeing how you were wrapped around each other like that."

"Mrs Lestrade—" Mycroft started.

"You going to take care of my lad?" she asked.

"Absolutely."

"You won't break his heart like she did?" The question was slightly accusatory, but Mycroft could appreciate why she asked.

"Heaven forfend," he responded.

"It's okay, Mum," Greg said, trying to sound reassuring but only managing embarrassed.

"Why have you been avoiding me, anyway? Were you afraid I'd disapprove?"

"It wasn't beyond the realm of possibility," Mycroft admitted, "but I felt that I shouldn't interrupt your private time with your gravely injured son. Your presence had priority over mine, naturally."

Mrs Lestrade sighed and shook her head. "That's very thoughtful of you, but it wasn't necessary. Even through the worst of it, he was always happier when you'd just visited, or when he thought you'd be here soon. You've made such a difference for him. And those times I saw you lurking about, you always looked so worried about him." She patted Mycroft's shoulder and pulled up a chair next to him. "You've got such a kind heart, Mycroft. I'm glad you two are giving it a go."

"Really?" Greg sounded as astonished as Mycroft felt.

"No one has ever accused me of being _kind_ before," Mycroft added.

"Well, they're idiots, then," she sniffed. 

Greg laughed. "Too right."

"You've been so good to my Greg. Thank you. I was worried I wouldn't be able to take proper care of him when he got home. You've lifted such a weight from these old shoulders."

"I didn't want to burden you, Mum. You've worked hard enough in your life as it is."

"Please be assured" Mycroft said, "Greg will have the best available care once he leaves here. He'll lack for nothing he could possibly need."

"You seem like the thorough sort," Mrs Lestrade said. "The type who's got a plan for everything."

"Very nearly," Mycroft said, though he couldn't help remembering how he'd failed everyone where Eurus was concerned.

Greg reached out and took his hand. "Hey, I can hear you thinking. None of that. You did everything you could."

"Greg's told me some of what happened," Mrs Lestrade said. "I know you feel responsible but, from what I heard, you couldn't have done anything more. My son's still here with me. That's enough, you know, that he made it through this. And here you are, willing to take care of him. You've not abandoned him."

"I would never do so." The very idea appalled Mycroft.

"He knows what it's like to be abandoned," Greg said. Mycroft shot Greg a panicked look and shook his head, not wanting that particular humiliation revealed. Greg nodded once, a tiny motion of his head. "His family treats him like shite. Sherlock, much as I like him, is a complete arse to his brother, even after all Mycroft's done for him."

"To be fair, he's been much better of late."

"Yeah but, Christ, it shouldn't have taken something like this for him to treat you like a human being."

Fury flashed in Mrs Lestrade's eyes and Mycroft could see where Greg got the temper that sometimes got hold of him. "Well, if they ever come round me, I'll smack some sense into the lot of them."

Mycroft took a deep breath and said, "My parents have reason to be angry with me. I concealed the existence of their daughter from them for decades."

Oh, bullshit," Greg grumbled. He turned to his mother. "He was fourteen when it happened, Mum. _Fourteen_. And it was his uncle that started it." He looked back at Mycroft, stern and unbending. "What the hell were you supposed to do all those years later, when the responsibility got passed to you? 'Oh, sorry, your daughter's been busy murdering people in prison, but come on by for some milk and bikkies.' I'm sure that would have fixed it all." Greg snorted, disgusted. "Some things — some _people_ — can't be fixed, Mycroft, and that's _not your fault_. Your parents are deluded, thinking any of this is on you. I don't want to hear another word of you blaming yourself for their reactions." Greg took a breath and growled to himself, looking suddenly exhausted. "Sherlock being the grownup. Really. Bugger that and the horse it rode in on."

"Greg!" Of course Greg's mother would chide him like a child for using 'naughty' language despite his being a middle aged police official.

"I mean it, Mum. Sherlock's a glorified six-foot toddler most of the time. He's brilliant, but he's a complete arse anytime Mycroft's near." He paused for a second. "Okay, he's almost always a complete arse, Mycroft or not. The way he's treated my team over the years…" Greg sighed sadly. He looked up when one of the hospital staff entered.

"It's time for your physical therapy appointment, Mr Lestrade," the young man said.

"Oh, bugger," Greg groaned.

"I know you hate it, but you really must," Mycroft told him.

"I know, I know, but god, it hurts."

The physical therapist nodded. "It gets better if you keep at it. Nobody enjoys it, but you need to build up your strength again." He went to Greg's bedside and offered him an arm to help him get up. Greg sighed sadly and took the proffered arm, grimacing in pain as he got to his feet.

"I'll be back in a while," Greg said, "probably fit only to snap somebody's face off."

"I should be going." Mycroft rose. "You'll doubtless want to sleep when you return, as usual."

Greg nodded. "Yeah, probably just going to pass out." He took Mycroft's hand for a moment and squeezed it. "We'll talk more later."

"I'll come back tomorrow," Greg's mother said. "You rest when you're done."

"Thanks, Mum." Greg pressed a kiss to her cheek then shuffled slowly out of the room on the therapist's arm, leaving Mycroft and his mother alone together.

Mrs Lestrade put a hand on Mycroft's arm. "I want to talk to you a bit."

Mycroft looked down at her hand, then up to her eyes. There was nothing threatening there, but hers was a face that brooked no nonsense. He nodded. "All right. May I get you a cup of tea?"

"Very kind of you."

"I'd prefer at the cafe down the street. The cafeteria is abysmal."

"No argument here," she agreed.

They proceeded to the street, Mycroft in silence, Greg's mother commenting mundanely on the weather. They got a table in a corner of the cafe and ordered their tea. Mycroft was uncertain what to expect. He'd been uncertain of nearly everything since Sherrinford.

"What would you like to discuss?" Mycroft asked, once they had their tea in hand.

"Why did all that happen? Why did she hurt Greg like that?" The worry in her brown eyes, so very like Greg's, affected Mycroft more deeply than he liked.

"My sister was profoundly deranged," Mycroft said, sighing. He rubbed his eyes with both hands. "She was brilliant, far beyond what most people could imagine, but there had always been something very wrong with her. She was institutionalized after she tortured my brother, murdered his best friend, and burnt our house to the ground."

Her eyes widened in shock. "Dear God, you must have had a horrifying childhood."

Mycroft shrugged. "I knew nothing else. I did my best to protect Sherlock, but no one listened to me. When I gained enough power and influence to attempt to contain my sister — who was still incredibly dangerous, even imprisoned — I followed in my uncle's footsteps and maintained the lie that she had died. Sherlock had been so traumatized that he remembered nothing. My parents still grieved the loss of their darling daughter. All of us tried to shelter Sherlock in our own ways, but I worried incessantly that he would become what she had. I feared losing him to the drugs, to his obsessions. I feared her. I knew she was more intelligent than I am, that she was capable of unbelievable acts of manipulation. And I thought that, since I knew her, since I was the closest thing to her equal, I might be immune to the worst of it." He looked down into his cup, unable to face her. "I was wrong. I was wrong, and it nearly cost your son his life."

Greg's mother patted his arm gently and Mycroft looked back up at her. "He told me how she tormented you, what she tried to do to you and your brother and his friend." She shook her head. "And he told me how she shot that poor woman and murdered the others, as well, like they were flies or mice. He's been having such terrible nightmares. He's said a lot of them were of her killing you." She paused and drew a slow, bracing breath. "I've seen him wake up crying, terrified, looking for you."

Mycroft's heart seized in his chest, but he tried to keep his emotions in check. "I try to be with him as much as I can. My work doesn't allow me to be there at all times, but I would, were it possible"

"You have them, too, don't you?"

Mycroft nodded. "Most nights, yes."

"Why Greg? Why did she want to hurt _him_?"

"Because he's my brother's friend. Because I care for him. Because she knew that hurting him would hurt us. And I'm more sorry for his involvement than you can possibly imagine." Mycroft struggled to keep his voice even, not certain he was succeeding. Greg's mother squeezed his wrist, not letting go. "For years, I kept him as far from me as I could. There were times that I treated him poorly in a misguided attempt to keep him safe. I have very powerful enemies and I knew that if I allowed him near, he would become a target for something like this." 

She nodded, clearly considering what he'd said. "I just thank God he survived."

"Too much of what happened was my doing."

"Greg said she changed her mind about killing him because you said you love him." Her voice softened at that, and the look she gave him was uncertain. Sherlock had said the same thing.

"That's true, though her intent was less to allow his survival than to torture us by giving him a slow, agonizing death instead of a swift, relatively painless one." That image, Mycroft thought — Eurus pulling the trigger, Greg folding into himself in pain, his muffled scream — would never leave him.

"He's still alive. I didn't have to bury my son. Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you for loving him and saving his life." Her voice shook as she spoke.

"I promise you, Mrs Lestrade, I will do everything in my power to care for him and keep him safe. I still have enemies and there are still risks in being too closely associated with me but, with my sister's death, the worst of it has passed. Other dangers are much more foreseeable and, therefore, more likely preventable."

Her hand moved from Mycroft's wrist and she sat straight, raising her chin, her voice steadying again. "My lad's been a copper for years, Mycroft. There's not a night gone by when I've not had some worry about getting that call all mothers dread. I've always known there might come a day when I'd have to bury him. That won't change, so long as he's working, and it hasn't changed because of you. So don't you go blaming yourself for all this, and don't imagine that I'll blame you if the worst happens someday. It's the life he chose, trying to make the world a little better place by taking murderers out of it. So long as you love him and make him happy, that's all I can ask."

"I shall do my best." His best had never been sufficient, but he tried. "His happiness is one of my highest priorities."

"I'm sure that's more than enough." Mrs Lestrade gave him a brief hug. Mycroft forced himself to endure it, grateful for her words, and for her misplaced confidence in him.

***

A few days before Greg was due to leave the hospital, John stopped in. "John. Haven't seen you since…"

"Yeah. Rosie's had a cold. Didn't want to expose you to toddler germs."

Greg couldn't help putting on his skeptical face. "Don't think she's been sick the entire time, mate."

John had the grace to look guilty, caught out in his lie. "Okay, fair enough." He sighed. "Sherlock says Mycroft's always here."

"And you've been avoiding him."

John nodded. "Yeah. Don't want to see him or talk to him. I've got no idea why you'd trust him after all this."

So, it was going to be like that. "You're one to talk, after some of the crap I've seen Sherlock pull on you."

"I'm just concerned about you."

Greg leaned back in bed and crossed his arms over his chest, annoyed. "Concerned enough that you've never managed to come see me."

"I told you—"

Greg rolled his eyes. "Look, John, I know you and Mycroft got off on the wrong foot, and things never got better from there. But I also know that even Sherlock doesn't believe most of what he's told you about his brother anymore. You _know_ it was based on stuff that Sherlock didn't even remember, things that he'd made up to block out a missing sister and a murdered best mate. And yeah, I actually heard what Mycroft said to Sherlock about you out there. I know it hurt—"

John started to interrupt but Greg held up a hand and kept going, trying to restrain his anger. "—but I also know he was trying to be a bloody _martyr_ and make Sherlock shoot him so he'd not have to shoot _you_. For all you hate him, Mycroft saw himself as the least valuable person in the room at that point, and he was trying to fucking _commit suicide_ to save your life, and mine. If you can't understand that, if you can't at least put some of your crap aside, after all that's changed, I don't know that I want you here. You don't have to be Mycroft's best mate, but I'd really prefer it if you didn't hate his guts, okay?"

John took a deep, sharp breath, holding up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay. I'm sorry. I know the two of you are a thing these days. I should have kept that to myself."

"Damned right," Greg snapped.

"I really do want to be sure you're okay, and I should have come by before."

"Yeah, you should have."

"You're not making this easy, Greg."

Greg glowered at him. "Not my job."

John closed his eyes and Greg could see him pulling himself together. "For your sake, and for Sherlock's, I will try to get on better with Mycroft. I will try to put aside my kneejerk response to him."

"That's a fair start," Greg answered. "Thank you."

"It doesn't change what happened with Mary." John's voice was grim, still angry.

Greg shook his head. "No, it doesn't, but was any of that actually Mycroft's fault? I mean, I was in the room too. I saw what happened. Mycroft had nothing to do with Mary's decision to stop a bullet for Sherlock. It's not his fault, any more than it's Sherlock's, or mine." John stayed silent, obviously resisting the urge to say anything. "Mycroft's not what you think he is, John. He's not a monster. He's not out to get you or make your life miserable. He's just a man whose family hates him for things he had no control over. Despite that, he's done his best to protect them, and to serve his country. I certainly don't agree with every decision he's ever made and I don't expect to going forward, but he deserves better than he got. I'm not going to let anyone keep kicking him in the teeth for things that aren't his fault." Greg closed his eyes for a second, finally ready to say something about what he felt.

"I care about him, John. I might even be in love with him. And it's no secret that he loves me. That matters. I won't have anyone talking shite about him any more than you tolerate other people abusing Sherlock." Greg knew John and Sherlock's friendship was both more complicated and more fragile than that, but the argument certainly served.

John nodded once, slowly. Greg watched the internal struggle with hurt, frustration, and — finally — resignation cascade over John's face. "Can we start over?" John asked, his voice quiet.

Greg decided he was willing to give it a chance. "I think we should."

John took a step back and a deep breath then pasted a smile on his face. It took a moment to become a real one. "Hey, Greg, it's great to see you. I hear you'll be going home soon. I'm sorry I haven't been in to see you yet. I've missed having you around."

Greg smiled back. "Thanks, John. Would have liked to see you, too. How's Rosie? Mrs Hudson?" It was a fair beginning, he thought.

***

Mycroft was uneasy as he assisted Greg into his flat. A guest bedroom had been set up for his use, a home aide had been cleared for nursing and physical therapy duties, and Mycroft hoped that the accommodations would be sufficient to Greg's needs. Greg seemed overwhelmed when he entered.

"This place is immense."

"It serves me well enough," Mycroft said, watching as Greg looked around.

"Think I'll need a map." He sounded bewildered.

A twinge of defensiveness pulsed in Mycroft's chest before he could stop it. "Really, now, it isn't _that_ large," he chided.

"Mycroft, you could fit my entire flat in the entryway here."

Mycroft attempted to look at his home through Greg's eyes. He knew the man lived in what wasn't much more than a glorified bedsitter since his divorce. He sighed. "I suppose it does seem a bit excessive from that perspective." 

Greg snorted, apparently amused by what he obviously thought of as Mycroft's understatement. "'A bit,' he says."

Leading the way to the guest room, Mycroft let Greg lean on him for some support. The ride from the hospital had been taxing for him, and he was still in pain and easily exhausted. They'd been told it would likely continue so, though with diminishing amounts of pain, for some months. Greg had been less than enthusiastic, but eager to leave the confinements of the hospital room.

The guest room was large and well-appointed, and Greg sighed with relief when he sank carefully down onto the bed. "You've had some of my clothes and things moved from my flat, right?"

Mycroft nodded. "Everything you'll need arrived yesterday." He opened the door. "Here's the _en suite_. The other door is a closet; your clothing is in there."

Greg nodded. "Okay. You'll have to forgive me. This is just a little overwhelming. The place is huge, but it hardly looks lived in."

"I suppose it hardly has been," Mycroft admitted. "It's convenient to my offices, but most of my comforts were at the family home." He still had a difficult time thinking of his new house as 'home.' So much of his life was empty — empty kitchen, empty rooms, empty bed. He'd grown to hate it, even as he longed for Greg's presence. "The question at hand, however, is whether you'll find it sufficiently comfortable for your recovery. Is there anything that I've not provided?" he asked, wanting to be reassuring. "Would you like anything else?"

Greg shook his head. "Can't think of anything offhand, but I'll let you know if something comes up." He sighed. "I need to lie down and sleep for a while. Can you grab me some pyjamas? Not sure I can drag myself upright again just yet for longer than it'll take to get out of these and into them. The idea of crossing the room is feeling a bit like tackling Everest right now."

"Of course," Mycroft answered, wondering why he hadn't thought to have them laid out and waiting for him when they arrived. He got a pair of pyjama trousers and a soft, over-large undervest from the drawer in the walk-in closet, along with Greg's worn, dark green robe, and brought them to him. Greg was staring at his feet. "If you require some assistance with your shoes…"

"Yeah," Greg said, quiet and subdued. "Bending that much right now — hurts just thinking about it. Sorry."

"There is absolutely nothing to be sorry for." Mycroft got down on one knee and untied Greg's shoes, pulling them off and tugging his socks off as well. He set them aside and looked up into Greg's embarrassed gaze. "You'll still require some help, and the transfer today was very stressful on your system. It's to be expected." Slippers. He would have to see that they were placed next to the bed as well.

"Come here," Greg murmured, patting the bed beside him. Mycroft rose and sat next to him, wrapping his arms around him. Greg sighed again and sank into the embrace, resting heavily against Mycroft's body, slipping his arms around him in return. They held each other, silent in the quiet of the room, just breathing in each other's presence. After many minutes, Greg took a deeper breath. "Thanks. Don't know what I'd do without you right now."

"Whatever you need," Mycroft said, his heart tight in his chest. "Anything at all, it's yours." Greg buried his face in Mycroft's neck, trembling slightly, though whether the source was emotion, pain, or exhaustion, Mycroft was unsure. "You should sleep," Mycroft whispered. "I'll just be down the hall if you need me."

Neither of them moved for a long time.

***

Life, very slowly, grew less painful for Greg. Even more slowly, it grew less exhausting. There were still days where getting up, showering, and getting dressed left him feeling gutted, but they were less frequent. He worried that it might be months before he'd even be able to face being chained to a desk, but he wanted to get back to work.

Mycroft had assured him that, even if he were never able to work again, Greg would lack for nothing. He wasn't sure how he felt about the idea of being Mycroft's kept man, but he had to admit the prospect was more pleasant than being a disability pensioner in a council flat somewhere. He'd seen too often what that life looked like, and the idea of living in that kind of poverty was much more frightening than Mycroft making sure he had what he needed.

Greg's life consisted of appointments with doctors, physical therapists, and a psych counselor. There were painful but necessary daily exercises to restore lost muscle tone, physical strength, and flexibility. It was a bit of an event the day he was able to touch his toes again. Climbing out of the pit of chronic exhaustion was harder, and much more frustrating.

They'd talked — a lot — about what was happening between them. Because of Greg's health, they'd done nothing more than hold each other and snog like desperate teenagers. Greg had, however, eventually moved into Mycroft's room, into Mycroft's bed, and into Mycroft's arms at night. To a certain extent, it had assuaged their mutual night terrors. When one woke in a sweat, or with a shout, the other was there, a calming, reassuring presence to drive back the horrors. While it didn't stop them entirely for either man, their frequency diminished, and it was easier for both of them to sleep through the night.

The word 'love' had passed Mycroft's lips several times, and Greg found himself responding with an ever-increasing depth of emotion. He'd been on the edge of it for weeks, even before he'd told John he might be falling for Mycroft. Though Mycroft worked insanely long hours, their nights together were sacrosanct. Greg suspected that only global crises would keep Mycroft out past midnight. He had a feeling that there had never previously been a reason for Mycroft to come home at night during "situations" before his arrival.

"The doc's finally cleared me for a little more, er… 'strenuous' physical activity," Greg said one evening, uncertain but hopeful.

Mycroft's head tilted slightly and he gave Greg a sharp, assessing look. "Are you certain you're up for such a thing?" he asked, the worry clear in his tone. "You're still so easily exhausted."

Greg shrugged. "They don't know how long that'll take to go away. It's not like I can go back to work yet. Can't sustain much for more than a couple of hours. But we don't have to be swinging from a trapeze or something, Mycroft." Trapezes. Greg chuckled.

"I understand that, of course," Mycroft said, looking at him with his 'you idiot' expression. "That doesn't mean I'm not concerned about surpassing your occasionally unpredictable physical limits and causing you harm." Despite Mycroft's arch tone, Greg could hear the genuine anxiety beneath his words.

"You're not going to hurt me," Greg reassured him. "I promise, if things get too rough, or just too exhausting, I'll say so. And there's not a thing wrong with the idea of me just, you know, lying back and enjoying anything you might want to do with me."

Mycroft's breath caught and his eyes darkened at Greg's words. "I… could be persuaded, I suppose," he admitted. "I'm fine with what we have, Greg. I know you worry that I might lose interest if things remain this way." That was true — Greg had been a bit concerned that Mycroft might grow weary of waiting. "That worry is, I absolutely assure you, entirely misplaced. My feelings for you are unchanged." He sighed. "I've loved you from a distance for years. After so long, the fact that I have you in my arms at night at all is more than I could ever have asked. I'm willing to wait indefinitely. I'm willing, in fact, to live permanently like this, if it's required. I would rather have you in my bed and occasionally resort to the solace of my own hand than harm you, or see you walk away. You must understand that. You are… endlessly, exquisitely precious to me."

"Mycroft…" Greg's emotions took a wild swing into territory he'd always thought best left to really awful romance novels. Mycroft came and sat next to him on the sofa, taking Greg into his arms. "You have to know by now that… that I love you, right?"

"I could never assume," Mycroft said, his voice and his face filled with emotions usually completely masked. "I hoped but, in this matter, I would never assume."

"Well, I do," Greg murmured, "and I'm finally feeling better enough to do something about it. God knows I've been wanting to. We've both been wanting to." Mycroft nodded, his thumb caressing Greg's cheek as he regarded him silently. "You, me, we're in this together, for the long haul. Whatever happens, Mycroft, from now on it's us. I love you. I want you. I think I need you. And I want to do more than just lie next to you and snog your lights out, right?"

"I would like, very much, to make love with you," Mycroft whispered, looking stunned and more than a bit overwhelmed.

"You can have me. I'm yours. Anything you want," Greg said, knowing Mycroft would never push him past his limits.

"You must tell me immediately if there's any pain, or if you become too tired. If you need anything at all to change or it isn't to your liking, just say the word and I shall happily adjust our activities or cease entirely. Your comfort is paramount."

Greg nodded, then leaned in and kissed him. "Let's start here." He offered Mycroft a hand, then rose when it was accepted, and led him to their bedroom. He was eager and excited, but the idea of trying anything on a sofa at this point was still beyond him. Not enough room, too much chance of falling off, not comfortable enough, and he didn't want to move once they got started.

They stood next to the bed for a moment, Mycroft pressed against Greg's back, his unsteady breath ghosting across the nape of Greg's neck as he held him close. He brushed a gentle kiss behind Greg's ear and rested his forehead against the back of Greg's head. "I've never been in a … romantic relationship with anyone before," he said.

"I know. You've told me. You're doing fine," Greg assured him. "I've been in a few but… but never like this. Never with someone who cared as much as you do. I know this is hard for you, but please stop worrying."

Mycroft's arms pulled him closer, encircling him completely, and Greg could feel Mycroft trembling slightly, his breath rough and uneven in his ear. Mycroft kissed his way slowly down the tendon in Greg's neck, from ear to shoulder, his lips warm and soft and achingly tender. It warmed Greg through, stirring emotions just as intense as his increasing arousal. Mycroft's hands moved, caressing Greg's sides and, carefully, across his abdomen.

"I'm fine, Mycroft. It's just some scarring there now. You won't hurt me."

"I can't be too careful," Mycroft said.

Greg chuckled. "Yeah. Yeah, you can." His hand covered one of Mycroft's and he guided it down to the front of his jeans, sliding Mycroft's fingers over the growing ridge of his rising cock. Mycroft's breath caught and he rubbed his palm over it. Greg hummed in approval and pressed against Mycroft's hand. "Want that. Want you."

Mycroft fumbled for a moment with the button and the zip, then reached inside Greg's jeans and drew his half hard cock out, stroking gently. Greg moaned, soft and needy, and Mycroft pressed against his arse, half hard himself. "God, what you do to me," he whispered, nibbling on Greg's ear as he stroked him.

It was electric, being touched like that, held like that, stroked with such intense longing in every shift of muscle and weight. Greg could feel the restrained desperation in Mycroft's every movement, each shuddering breath, in the trace of his lips on his neck and cheek and shoulder. He was sure Mycroft was going to kill him with the intensity of their want and the oceanic swell of their shared emotions.

Greg took a shaky breath of his own and turned in Mycroft's arms, facing him and wrapping his arms about Mycroft's waist. He tilted his head up and kissed the man soundly, their tongues sliding together and caressing. Mycroft moaned and Greg tucked his fingers down into the waistband of Mycroft's trousers, wanting to take that oh so tempting bottom into his hands and pull him closer. Greg pulled his face away slightly. "Clothes off, yeah?"

Mycroft nodded enthusiastically. "Yes, of course." He smiled at Greg, absolute delight in his grey-blue eyes, and Greg grinned back at him. "I had always believed you were beyond my reach," Mycroft said, pressing slow kisses to Greg's cheek and jaw, "beyond my ability to touch. The reality of you, here, still shocks me every time I see you, every time I wake to find you beside me, or in my arms." Mycroft's hands moved on him, carefully disrobing Greg, exposing his skin, and Mycroft's own emotions, which were ragged and tender as raw nerve endings. His eyes were dark and filled with an unfathomable depth of desire. "Your presence is a gift for which I shall never be ungrateful."

"I never thought I'd hear you talk like this," Greg answered, his throat tight, chest filled to aching with need. "I know you always felt you had to hide everything, but how you feel about me just astonishes me." He tugged at Mycroft's tie, pulling the knot away and slipping the silk from around his neck. Greg dropped it on the floor, and Mycroft's eyes never left his. They kissed again as Greg worked the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt, opening them, wanting to be skin to skin for the first time.

"I worry about you. You're still too thin." Mycroft's hands rose from Greg's hips, up past his waist, and traced their way to his chest.

Greg nodded. "Yeah, I know. Long-term liquid diet and lack of movement'll do that to a bloke. It's getting better."

"Slowly."

"Everything takes time," Greg said with a shrug.

"Yes." Mycroft kissed him again. Greg wasn't sure he'd ever get enough of that. The man kissed like some demon lover, soft and passionate, and seductive as all hell. Greg didn't think he'd ever be able to resist what the man's lips and tongue and teeth did to him.

Greg brushed the layers of cloth from Mycroft's shoulders, along with his braces, and the shirt and waistcoat slipped down his arms, baring skin. Greg's breath caught as Mycroft's clothes did, and Mycroft took his hands from Greg's body for a moment to dispose of his cufflinks, simply dropping them into the growing puddle of cloth at their feet. Greg shucked himself out of jeans and pants and tugged at Mycroft's waistband.

Mycroft unbuttoned his trousers, but when his eyes dropped to Greg's body, he stopped, frozen. Greg followed his eyes to the large scar that was just beginning to fade on his abdomen.

"Don't, Mycroft. I'm not in hospital now. We're not there, we're not then. I'm okay now." He tugged at Mycroft's half-open trousers, pulling him toward the bed. "Come on, join me here. Don't freak out on me, please."

"It's just… it's the first time I've actually seen the scar," Mycroft said, his voice gone rough and unsteady, his face suddenly pale. "The last time I saw your body exposed like this, the EMT had his… had his hands inside you, trying to stop the bleeding."

Greg dragged him down onto the bed and pushed Mycroft's clothes off. He smothered him in a tight embrace, body to body, and felt Mycroft shudder in his arms. "It's okay. I'm okay. We're not there now." He could feel Mycroft's sharp, panicked breathing as the man struggled for control. "Shh, it's okay. Come back to me." With one hand, he turned Mycroft's face to his and looked into his wide, frantic eyes. "Look at me. Come on."

Mycroft blinked rapidly several times and his control snapped back into place. He looked away, embarrassed. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"It's okay," Greg repeated, pushing against Mycroft's jaw with his fingertips to make him look up again. "I'm still here. You're still here. We'll get through this." He kissed Mycroft, reaching for the warm sensuality that had shattered when Mycroft panicked. "I want this, okay? I still want to do this with you. It's all going to be fine." He rolled onto his back and took one of Mycroft's hands, placing it gently over the still-angry scar on his belly. "Touch me. It's okay. It doesn't hurt."

Mycroft gazed into his eyes for a moment, then looked down and let his fingers slowly, carefully, trace the thin line in Greg's flesh that had been carved by the emergency surgery in the helicopter. He pressed gently. Greg simply lay there breathing, letting Mycroft reassure himself. "It's not painful?" Mycroft whispered.

"No. Trust me, if it was, we wouldn't be doing this."

Mycroft nodded. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, love. Come kiss me."

Mycroft rolled on top of him and kissed him with harsh desperation, clinging to him like a drowning man to a lifeboat. This wasn't sensuality but an affirmation of Greg's continued existence, and Greg held on, returning the kiss with everything he possessed. When Mycroft pulled away, breathless and panting, he looked into Greg's eyes. "I told my brother once that losing him would break my heart." He paused and took a slow, deep breath, letting it out through his nostrils. "Losing you…" Mycroft took another shaky breath. "Losing you would utterly destroy me."

Shocked, Greg traced Mycroft's damp, glistening lips with his fingertips. "I'm here, love. I'm not going anywhere, I swear." He remembered what Mycroft had said to Eurus, that he couldn't live with himself if he'd ordered Greg's death. "We're both here. We got through it together, Myc — we survived."

They kissed again deep and endless, their naked bodies twined together in desperate, needy passion. Need sparked into arousal, and their embrace transformed, became a slow, intense grinding of slick skin and hard erections. They moved together for many minutes until Mycroft, panting, backed away. "Not yet," he said, breathless and gloriously dishevelled. "Too close, I don't want to end this so soon."

Greg nodded and let Mycroft roll to his side. Greg turned as well, facing him, one hand cupping the roundness of Mycroft's arse in his palm. Greg's heart was thundering and he panted for breath as well. "When you're ready," he said, "I'd love to have you in me." Mycroft tilted an eyebrow at him, obviously slightly skeptical of Greg's ability to cope with something that might turn strenuous. "It'll take a while to get me ready. You can lie behind me, on our sides, like this," he said. "It'll be a lot easier than folding me up like origami or something, and less stressful than on my knees." He reached down and gave Mycroft's hard cock a gentle squeeze.

Mycroft moaned softly and nodded. "All right, yes. Anything you like. I'm sure that will be fine."

"Oh, thank god you're not going to argue with me about it," Greg muttered. "I'm so bloody hard I'm fit to burst. Having this in me," he gave Mycroft a long, slow stroke, "would be fucking perfection."

Mycroft shuddered and gasped as Greg stroked him. "You're going to kill me if you don't stop that this instant. I'll never last long enough to enter you."

Greg let go, not wanting to push too hard and lose the opportunity. He knew he'd only be up for one go before he was exhausted, and he wanted it to be just right. "I'm sorry." He leaned toward Mycroft and kissed his shoulder. "Let's get those fingers where I want them instead, then."

"How long has it been for you?"

Greg gave a casual shrug. "Not sure. Years. Go slow and I'll be fine."

Mycroft nodded and rolled over to reach into a drawer in the bedside table for some lube to ease the way. Greg smiled, a happy anticipation growing within him. He lay on his back and planted one foot on the mattress, knee raised, to give Mycroft room to work.

"You are absolutely exquisite," Mycroft murmured, squeezing out some of the gel onto his fingers. He slid one slippery hand down Greg's cock, making him sigh with pleasure and thrust slowly up into the stroke. Mycroft's fingers slipped lower, circling Greg's tight, sensitive hole, applying gentle pressure without attempting any penetration. It felt fantastic.

"Yeah, like that," Greg breathed, letting his knee fall a little to the side, which spread his legs and exposed him further. He saw Mycroft bite his lower lip and take an aroused breath. "Just slow and smooth, like that." Mycroft's hand kept moving, fingers slipping and teasing, his palm cupping Greg's bollocks and rubbing as he did. Greg shivered and sighed, sinking into the pleasure of it. He turned his face and kissed Mycroft softly. 

"Exquisite," Mycroft whispered again, his lips moving against Greg's as he spoke. "I want to give you absolute pleasure." One finger pressed slightly harder, testing the resistance of Greg's tight muscle. Greg breathed into it and let Mycroft penetrate him, feeling the stretch that he'd missed for so long. There was no pain, but it was tighter and a little more uncomfortable than he'd remembered. He shifted slightly and made himself relax more, focusing on the sweet slide and the friction as Mycroft slowly moved in and out, twisting his finger gently and moving in a tiny bit more with each tender stroke.

They stayed like that for several minutes, Greg lying there reveling in the sensations and Mycroft staring at him, transfixed, with eyes gone dark with emotion and arousal. Greg's breath caught and his back arched when Mycroft finally slipped his finger slowly over the sweet spot inside him. He closed his eyes and felt his cock jerk at the intensified sensation of pleasure.

"Are you able to reach orgasm like this?" Mycroft asked, his voice quiet but rough with want.

Greg shook his head. "Not usually," he responded, breathy from the ongoing caress of Mycroft's finger. "But fuck, it feels fantastic." He shivered, his nipples tightening into hard peaks as Mycroft pressed and rubbed harder inside him. He moaned, unable to stop himself from clenching around Mycroft's finger, and Mycroft gasped. Greg could feel Mycroft's cock twitching against his hip. "God, that's going to be so incredible when you're fucking me," he panted.

Mycroft groaned and kissed Greg's neck fervently, moving down his chest to suck at one hard nipple. Greg squirmed, burying his hand in Mycroft's hair to hold his head there. He felt Mycroft pressing at him with a second finger, sliding it in carefully, and Greg rocked his hips into the penetration, desperately wanting more.

"Be still, be still," Mycroft whispered. "Don't hurt yourself." He pressed a kiss to Greg's chest and looked up into his face, assessing.

"Fine, 'm fine," Greg gasped. "Oh, god yes."

A few more minutes of increasing pleasure, and Mycroft added a third finger, then a fourth. Greg was a moaning wreck by that point, sweating and gasping before he finally broke down and started begging Mycroft to fuck him.

Mycroft rolled him to his side and lifted Greg's leg to rest on his thigh, opening him up as he tucked in close behind him. Greg moaned as Mycroft pressed into him, and Mycroft gasped, clutching Greg tightly to his chest as he moved, slowly and carefully penetrating him. "I've dreamed of this," Mycroft whispered, his voice harsh and rough with arousal and emotion. "Dreamed of you in my arms, the sound of your voice, the heat of you…" Mycroft shuddered and pushed into him, rocking his hips carefully. "Oh, Greg."

Greg couldn't help his whimper as Mycroft's hips met his arse and Mycroft's slick hand closed around Greg's hard, throbbing cock and began slowly stroking. "Oh, fuck, don't stop." He ground back against Mycroft's body, wanting more.

Mycroft obliged him, withdrawing and thrusting back in at a slow, steady pace that completely destroyed Greg. "Dreamed of feeling you, tight on my prick," he whispered, his breath hot against the back of Greg's neck. "Hearing you beg me to pleasure you, the sound of your —" Mycroft twisted his hips, driving his cock in deeper, and Greg shouted in ecstasy "— your voice, calling my name as I made you mine."

"Oh, fuck, _Myc_." Greg couldn't get enough air in his lungs through the gorgeous heat of it all and the electric sense of pleasure building within him. He gasped and shuddered, clutching at Mycroft's hip with one hand, his other joining Mycroft's on his cock, pushing him to stroke _harder_. Greg felt Mycroft's mouth on his neck and shoulder, desperate and savage, as if he wanted to consume Greg, and the pleasure burned in him, setting him alight.

"No dream," Mycroft gasped against Greg's skin, "no fantasy ever came close to the reality of you." Mycroft panted in Greg's ear, sucking at the lobe for a moment as his body moved and rocked, thrusting and stroking and pushing Greg ever closer to the inevitable crest. "The way you feel, the sound of your voice, how much I _need_ you." 

"Please, please," Greg gasped, unable to form other words. It was glorious.

"Perfect — you're perfect." Mycroft held him, thrusting and shuddering. "So close," he panted. "Oh, god, you're so—" Both of them groaned as Mycroft squeezed Greg's cock, twisting on the down stroke and dragging a wild surge of explosive pleasure from Greg. He shouted again and again, feeling Mycroft grind into him, moaning through his own release as they writhed together, bodies tangled in blissful surrender to the moment, and to each other.

They lay together afterwards, limp and gasping, bodies languid and overheated and sweaty. Mycroft moved first, his arm sliding up from Greg's hip to his chest to hold him in an embrace that felt so tender and vulnerable that Greg shivered. "I love you," Mycroft whispered, nuzzling the nape of Greg's neck. His hips moved, pushing into Greg for a last few slow, deep thrusts of his softening cock.

"God, Mycroft, that was…" Greg was breathless and overwhelmed. "Holy fuck, I needed that," he whispered. As Mycroft slipped from his body, Greg winced at the slightly uncomfortable ache, then turned in his arms and brushed his nose against Mycroft's. "You were incredible, love. That was perfect."

Mycroft's eyes crinkled and his face was transformed by a shy, genuine smile that lit Greg's heart. "It was," he said. "You were. Absolute perfection." He gazed at Greg for a moment before giving him a more assessing look. "Are you all right? Were we too enthusiastic?"

Greg was going to just say no, it was fine, but he could feel some twinges. He sighed. "A little sore," he admitted, "but worth every bloody twitch. I'll be fine."

"Sore is all right. You're not hurt?"

Greg shook his head. "Nah. I'm good. Better than good. No worries, okay?" He raised a hand and caressed Mycroft's cheek, then kissed him before the man's brain could start going places it didn't need to be. "How about you. Okay?"

Mycroft rested his head on one arm and looked into Greg's eyes, languid and content. "I am… happier than I have any right to be."

Greg frowned at him. "Bugger that. You have every right to be happy, Mycroft. I _want_ you to be happy."

Mycroft looked thoughtful, his eyes going distant for a moment. "It was never a thing I expected to have. Happiness." He focussed again, looking Greg in the eyes. "I suspect I'll have to learn how to live with it." A small, crooked smile crept across Mycroft's lips, and Greg smiled with him.

"I'll help," Greg said. He kissed him.

***

Greg's first day back at work was nearly six months after he'd been shot. The pain was mostly gone, but he still had moments of utter exhaustion that hit without notice. There were cheers and applause when he walked through his division. His desk had a pile of gifts and envelopes waiting for him, and a couple of bouquets of flowers, as well. 

People crowded in around him, asking after him, telling him they were glad he was back. Dimmock grumbled about the extra workload Greg's absence had caused, but there was a smirk on his lips that gave lie to the complaint. "Good to have you back, old man," he said, patting Greg on the shoulder.

"Good to be back," Greg said, grinning.

Sally was the last remaining lurker as things calmed back down again after the gifts and cards were opened and set aside, and everyone drifted back to work. "Good to see you behind your desk again, Greg." She set a coffee down in front of him with a stack of files.

Greg smiled at her and took a sip of the coffee. Just the way he liked it, too. "Thanks for visiting me while I was laid up, Sal. It helped a lot."

"Couldn't have you entirely out of the loop." She hesitated for a moment. "Your toff treating you okay? I mean, I know he's Sherlock's brother and all, but I swear I'll bury him if he hurts you."

Greg gestured to the chair in front of his desk. "Yeah," he said, "he is. He's amazing, really. Treats me like the bloody crown jewels."

"Good," she said, nodding. "That's good. You deserve somebody who'll treat you right." She sipped at her own coffee as she sat. "First time I saw him at the hospital there, waiting on you before you woke up, he looked a right mess. I heard a little about what happened. Never thought I'd see Mr Scary-As-Fuck-MI6 looking like that. I wanted to be angry with him at first, but he was just so broken."

"Some terrible things happened out there," Greg said. He sighed. "Gonna stay with me for the rest of my life. But Mycroft… He's doing better now, like I am. For me it was one day in hell. For him it was a lifelong nightmare that stayed hidden for decades, just under the surface, suddenly showing up on his doorstep. It's been rough on him. Worse than he'd ever let on to anyone else."

"You care about him a lot." There was no judgment in her tone, just a quiet statement of fact.

Greg could feel himself going a bit daft just thinking about the man and how he felt about him. "Love him, actually. We're talking about making it a permanent arrangement."

Her eyes widened. "What, like moving in with him?"

"Did that already." Greg chuckled. "Like maybe getting married."

Sally grinned. "Greg, you old dog!" She laughed. "I never thought you'd jump back in the water after you split with your ex."

He shrugged. "I didn't either, but… you find the right person…"

"When's the big announcement?"

"It's not official yet. We're just talking about it at this point, but I think it'll happen. Year or so, maybe. There's a lot to be done first, a lot to think about." The list in Greg's head was massive, though he knew how it would turn out in the end.

"And you both need to be sure." She tilted an eyebrow at him.

"Yeah. Mycroft more than me, I think. He's never really done actual relationships, for a lot of reasons. It's all pretty new to him. He's still finding his feet, you know?"

Sally looked thoughtful. "I'd only ever seen his whole wall of ice act before this — power suits and specializing in intimidation. I couldn't imagine a bloke like him being in love with anybody before I saw how wrecked he was while you were in a coma."

Greg sighed and nodded. "That's a part of him, yeah, but it's not the only thing in there. Kind of scary to think that under Mycroft Holmes's occasionally terrifying exterior beats a heart of candy floss."

Sally giggled. "Oh, god, I don't need that picture in my head. I'll never be able to take him seriously again."

Greg smirked. "Yeah, don't let him hear you say that. You'll be posted to the Shetlands before you can say your name."

"I'm not worried. You'll keep him on a short leash." She grinned, wicked.

"True, that. Couldn't let my best officer go, could I?"

She laughed and set her coffee down. "And on that note, it's back to the salt mines for you, boss. Let's go over the cases we're working on now."

***

Sherlock watched from a distance as his brother and Lestrade walked through Hyde Park together. They were shoulder to shoulder, close enough to touch, but maintaining a slight, professional distance in public. He spotted one of Mycroft's security men nearby and nodded to himself, satisfied that neither were in danger. Their stroll was leisurely in the early evening light, a little before sunset on a beautiful autumn day.

Eventually, Mycroft and Greg stopped in the Italian Water Gardens, talking and smiling at one another. They held hands, but it was discreet and mannerly, obviously within Mycroft's comfort zone for public displays of affection where Greg was concerned. A fairly new development, that.

After a few minutes, Mycroft shifted nervously on his feet, his free hand in his jacket pocket. He hesitated, then brought out a small box and opened it, saying something that Sherlock couldn't read because his face was turned partly away. Greg looked at it, a broad grin on his face, nodded vigorously and shouted a very obvious "YES!" He threw his arms around Mycroft, who clenched the box in his fist and returned the hug, beaming, with a smile like none Sherlock had ever seen on his face before.

"Oh, well done, brother mine. Well done," Sherlock murmured.

He watched for a few more minutes as the two men talked, still holding one another in the fading light, then Mycroft took his phone from his pocket. He typed something in rather than taking a call, which Sherlock found puzzling, until he received the text:

_You can stop skulking about behind us now. We shall expect you to act as my best man, of course. No, Greg will not assist with writing the speech._

Sherlock laughed.

++end++


End file.
